Simple fare or sumptuous feast, delight informed by the connections made around the table.
It’s cold here today, gray and kind of damp. The sidewalks are dark with moisture, but the raindrops are not yet big enough to see from the sofa in the living room. The noontime weatherman said it will rain this afternoon, hard, for about an hour, then turn to snow. It’s April 15, too late for snow, but in Colorado it’s never too late (and never too early). The dog is curled up in a tight ball, snug in a nook between the back of the couch and my hip, snoring softly. I am wishing for a fire in a fireplace that we don’t have and a piping hot bowl of homemade soup.
When we were kids, we used to play a game with my mom where we would tell stories about our favorite meal. We were pretty young then, so we didn’t have much to choose from, but I always picked the time we ate homemade soup in front of the fire. My mom made the soup — chicken and rice — and then set up a table in the living room in front of the fireplace. That fireplace, made of old bricks that the contractor picked by hand from the remnants of other jobs, was the crowning glory of the house we were little in, bricks stretching across the whole width of the living room and a mantelpiece of shiny maple.
My mother was a very good cook and she made us lots of delicious meals and indulgent desserts and treats. There are many dishes that she made that I wish I had recipes for now, so I could recreate them in my own kitchen. But when it came to feeding four little children, she was practiced and practical, typically opting for tried and true, and quick and easy. So I don’t know whatever possessed my mother to do such a whimsical thing, but even now, all these years later, I remember how enchanting that simple meal was with the fire crackling in the background and all the people I loved gathered together, all the laughter and the jokes and the dinner-table stories, and the comforting feeling of being safe that we all took for granted.
All children should be so fortunate.
I have had lots of good food in my life: white pizza and wine in Manhattan, waffles on the Eiffel Tower, chicken tortas in a smoky bar in Alamosa, omelets in a truck stop at midnight after a Bruce Springsteen concert ...
Now sometimes I play the game with myself — “Erin, what’s the best meal you ever ate?” — or with friends. Some people will describe the sumptuous food they ate, how it was prepared, what unique or fresh ingredients went in to it, or what it tasted like on the tips of their tongues. I too have had lots of good food in my life: white pizza and wine at a sidewalk
café in Manhattan; waffles dripping with chocolate on the Eiffel Tower; steak at a lakeside eatery in Wisconsin; halibut covered in hazelnut cream sauce in a posh, top-floor restaurant in Anchorage, Alaska; chicken tortas in a smoky bar in Alamosa, Colorado, a big neon rooster keeping watch from above the door; omelet’s in a truck stop at midnight after a Bruce Springsteen concert; lasagna at a friend’s kitchen table. But I tend not to remember the food as much as the occasion and the company and the feelings that sat at the table with us.
My parents treated me to dinner at the Penrose Room at the Broadmoor in Colorado Springs the week before I left home for college. We lived in Colorado Springs from the time I was in fifth grade through my graduation from college, so I had been to the Broadmoor on multiple occasions. We used to partake of their Easter brunch and go for hot chocolate in the ski chalet, but the Penrose Room was even fancier, even pricier, even more. My parent used to go there on their anniversary and they took my sister there when she graduated from high school, but that was the first — and so far, only — time for me. I don’t remember what I ordered — probably steak and a baked potato — but I do remember how attentive the waiters were, filling our water glasses after nearly every sip, pushing the bread crumbs off the linen table cloth with a special silver knife, anticipating our every desire almost without an exchange of words. I remember how I felt, beautiful and sophisticated, in the delicately flowered dress I got for my graduation and the high heels that I can’t believe now I could even walk in. And I remember the words of praise and pride from my parents.
All young adults should be sent out into the world in such a way.
Some years later, my nephew made and served us one of my most memorable meals. Fred was 6 then, beloved and beautiful and beginning to bloom into his own person. He and his younger brother, Sam, were spending the week with us after the birth of their new brother. He decided one day that he wanted to make lunch for us — Grandma and Grandpa, me; I think Aunt Kathy was there too. He could make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches all by himself, he said, so we got strawberry jelly and peanut butter out of the pantry and gave him a loaf of bread. He divided the slices of bread onto luncheon plates, covered them in peanut butter and then agonized about whether he was putting an equal amount of jelly on each sandwich. I think we had chips too and milk, and we ate at a gingham-covered picnic table in the backyard. Fred kept apologizing for the trouble he had with the jelly, unaware that he had just served the best sandwiches any of us would ever eat.
All little boys (and girls) should know that kind of adoration.
Not long after that, my sister moved to Alaska, and for a few years either my parents or I went to visit her each summer, sometimes me, sometimes them, sometimes together, sometimes with my aunt or my nieces or random friends. Alaska is a great vacation for food — caribou stew at a downtown diner, reindeer sausage from a sidewalk vendor, fish-on-a-stick at the end of the world, seafood buffets on glacier cruises and slices of pie from any number of roadhouses. The most memorable meal I had in Alaska, however, was a pre-dawn breakfast in Denali National Park. My sister and I drove to Denali the day before, about six hours from Anchorage, and rented a cabin in the park. We were scheduled to take a bus (and a sack lunch) into the park and partway up the mountain the next day, leaving the parking lot at some ungodly hour when it was still dark, so we tried to go to bed early. People in the nearby cabins however, kept shouting about the Northern Lights. I don’t know why. We never saw them — although we got up over and over to check. The next morning, bleary-eyed from the unsatisfying Borealis quest, we made our way to the breakfast buffet in the hotel dining room. I suppose there were things on the table like scrambled eggs and French toast and orange juice, but more importantly there was a big vat of freshly-made oatmeal, surprisingly still hot, with mix-ins: raisins and cranberries, walnuts, bananas, brown sugar and creamy cream instead of milk. Sure, not everyone wants to start their day with such hardy fare and some people just don’t care for hot cereal, but that morning, still dark and not yet warm, it was sustaining and kind of magical.
All adventurers should be blessed with such a beginning.
Frequently, I bask in the memory of a perfect morning we spent in Florence, Italy, a few years ago. It was July and though the thermometer would reach 100 degrees when we got to Rome that afternoon, it was not yet hot. We were on the tail end of a two-day bus tour and, for the most part, our stops were tightly scheduled. But that morning, the bus driver dropped us off near the Piazza della Signoria and told us to meet the bus in four hours. We spent most of that time wandering along the cobblestone streets, looking at sidewalk art, buying leather handbags, watching children on a renaissance carousel, ducking into the Disney Store, watching gypsies hit up tourists, looking for Pinocchio, reveling in the amazing art: Michelangelo’s David (of course), Bandinelli’s “Hercules and Cacus,” Ammannati’s “The Nettuno” fountain. We finally decided to take a mid-morning coffee break at a sidewalk café across the Piazza from the Loggia dei Lanzi, an open-air sculpture gallery that houses Giambologna’s “Rape of the Sabine,” Cellini’s “Perseus with the Head of Medusa“ and Fancellii’s “Medici Lion.” It seemed so unreal; we ordered Caffe con Panna (coffee with whipped cream) and a big bowl of fresh blackberries (Ciotola di More, if you’re Italian — or pretending to be). I’ve never tasted berries so sweet. We spent awhile there, watching the tourists come and go, imagining a life in the ancient city, talking about the political stories that inform the artwork, savoring every drop of an amazing decadent cup of coffee. It was a perfect hour in the middle of a perfect morning.
Everyone should be so blessed.
THE PIE
This pie — Juicy, Jammy Blackberry Pie — is a nod to that perfect morning in Florence. The blackberries are definitely the star. The pie is heavy with fat, juicy berries and seasoned with only a pinch of nutmeg. Some of the berries are smashed with a fork to let the juices flow, but others go into the pie whole. This creates a simple sweet jam that binds the filling together while also allowing a satisfying bite of berries. It kind of brings to mind summer days and sunshine and the siren call of adventures.
The Recipe
Juicy, Jammy Blackberry Pie
Dough for two crusts
5 cups (about 2 pounds) fresh or frozen blackberries
1 cup granulated sugar
Juice of half of a medium lemon, about 1½ tablespoons
About 1/16 teaspoon (a pinch) nutmeg
About 1/16 teaspoon (a pinch)salt
5 to 6 tablespoons flour (depending on how juicy the berries are)
2 tablespoons chilled unsalted butter, cut into small pieces
Make the dough and refrigerate it for at least an hour, or overnight. Roll out the bottom crust and place it in a 9-inch pie plate. Tuck the crust into the plate and trim the edges. Refrigerate the crust while you make the filling.
Preheat the oven to 425 degrees.
In a large bowl, mix the blackberries with the granulated sugar, lemon juice, nutmeg and salt. Stir in the flour, smashing some of the berries as you do so. Set the filling aside.
Roll out the top crust and retrieve the bottom crust from the refrigerator. Pour the filling into the bottom crust and smooth it with a spoon. Dot the filling with butter. Drape the top crust over it, trim the edges and crimp or flute the edges. Cut generous steam vents. (If you decide to make a lattice crust, you will not need to cut steam vents.)
If you want a sparkly pie, brush the crust with milk and sprinkle with demarara sugar.
Bake the pie in the middle of the oven for 15 to 20 minutes, until the crust is blond and blistered. Rotate the pie front to back and reduce the heat to 375 degrees F. Bake about 35 to 45 minutes more, until the crust is deeply golden and the juices bubble slowly at the pie’s edge.
Cool on a wire rack for at least an hour before serving.
Store on the counter, loosely wrapped in a towel for up to three days.
Buttery Double Crust
2 ½ cups all-purpose flour
2 teaspoons salt
2 tablespoons granulated sugar
¾ cup (1½ sticks) cold unsalted butter, cut into 1-inch pieces
¼ cup (4 tablespoons) cold vegetable shortening
¼ cup (4 tablespoons) cold vodka
6 tablespoons cold water, plus extra as needed
In a large bowl, mix together the flour, salt and sugar until thoroughly combines. Add the butter and shortening and cut together with a pastry cutter until the mixture forms small pea-sized crumbs.
Pour the vodka over the mixture, a tablespoon at a time, using a rubber spatula. Add the water and press the dough together to form two large balls. If the dough seems dry or does not hold together, add extra water a tablespoon at a time until all the ingredients come together. (Be careful not to work the dough too much to prevent the crust from being tough.)
Press each ball into a 1-inch disk, wrap each in plastic wrap and refrigerate for at least an hour — up to two days — before rolling out.
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