Turkey Tracks: August 14, 2010
Blackberries
“I want that jelly with the berries in it,” Talula announced this summer. She’ll be 4 in a few weeks, and she loves to be in the kitchen with me. She loves to eat, is discerning about food tastes already, and asks to help cook at every step.
The jelly with the berries was blackberry jelly–an older jar made before I figured out how to get rid of the seeds with a food mill. So far, Talula only uses it on morning toast. She has not yet discovered the way my grandmother and I eat it: spread on pancakes with lots of butter. Or, a dab of it on a hot, short biscuit dripping with butter. (Southern biscuits are not high and puffy; they’re “short” and flat, more like a pie crust.
I’m down to one jar of blackberry jelly, and today I went and picked 4 1/2 gallons of fresh blackberries. It took about two hours. I was ecstatic since you never know from year to year if you’ll get more. Last year, for instance, we didn’t get any tomatoes, so we went for two years on what I had put up year before last. (I used the last jar of roasted tomatoes this past week.)
It takes a LOT of berries to make a pint jar of blackberry jelly–something most people who take jelly for granted don’t know. Homemade blackberry jelly or jam, made from wild blackberries, is a thing of joy. It bears no relationship to what you can buy in a store. And, it has no added “help,” like pectin. You just have to pick a red berry or two as you go along for the pectin. In my family, blackberry jelly was prized, and one never wasted it or ate a lot of it at one time. One conserved blackberry jam, one treasured it, one let each bite linger on the tongue, because one pint jar of it represented not only a lot of work, but the luck of finding a blackberry patch where one could pick enough berries to make a pint jar of jam.
Blackberries are part of my childhood. I learned BLACKBERRY in the summers when we were in Reynolds, Georgia, the home of my mother’s parents. When blackberries were in season, the adults would organize all the visiting cousin children and would drive us to a patch one or the other of them had found. We had to pick until there were enough for, at least, a cobbler for dinner, which was eaten in the middle of the day. There was always great drama since copperhead moccasin snakes love blackberry patches, and we were always scared to wade too deep into the bushes. After dropping off the berries at the house for the cook, the adults took us swimming in the local pool at the edge of the swamp where free-flowing artesian water that was ice cold cleaned us up, soothed scratches, and made us really hungry for dinner.
I’ve never found a recipe for those cobblers. The crust was more like pie crust, crunchy and flakey. And I don’t think the cobbler was lined, like a pie. I don’t remember the inside being too watery. I don’t remember the kind of dish they used either. I don’t think it was a pie plate. They used either whip cream or ice cream, but mostly, whip cream. My father loved blackberry cobbler, and he was always a chief organizer for picking them.
Because the family gathered in the summer in Reynolds, there could be a crowd at dinner. I remember 10 or 12 people at the table. And, sometimes the children had to overflow to the kitchen table. There were probably not enough berries left after the cobbler for jelly making. Grandmother’s cook made the dinner and the cobbler. But grandmother always made the blackberry jelly and, at holidays, special cakes and fudge. I think the recipe I’ve evolved is pretty close to hers. When my mother was sick with cancer, I picked, cooked, and made two jars for her, which I mailed to her with special packing. She knew how special they were, what a gift I was sending her. She didn’t want to take the jars to the dining room in the home where she was living. No one else would understand, but mother knew BLACKBERRY, and she was not going to share with anyone who thought they were eating plain old jelly.
I’m so lucky to have access to a dynamite wild blackberry patch. I’ve been checking up on it over the past few weeks, and today was the day where the stars aligned so I could go pick. I donned heavy pants, found my wellie boots (I only tripped and fell down once in them this outing), found an old hat, organized a pail I could line with big baggies, a rope to tie the pail to my waist so I could pick with both hands–something Maine friend Margaret taught me–filled up my water bottle, and headed out. The patch is about 40 minutes away from our house.
I’ll make the jelly in small batches, starting tomorrow. I froze 3 gallons so they won’t go bad until I get to them since the full bounty of summer food is pouring forth right now.
Next summer, I’ll have to try to teach Talula BLACKBERRY. It’s harder when she can’t learn to pick them. Their school starts in mid-August, so they miss the full richness of the Maine harvest.



