Seasonal fruit.

Blackberry and peach cobbler

Seasonal fruit at the market are both an invitation and a challenge. An invitation to create a dish that’s especially delicious because the fruit is ripe, and a challenge – can you bake a treat worth of the fresh quality of the fruit? 

Saturday morning, I decided to buy blackberries from the neighborhood farmer’s market at the parking lot on 4th and M. Streets. Plucked two luscious red with yellow streaks Honey Crisp apples, and three peachy peaches. I slid them into a plastic bag. A cobbler? A pie? Muffins? The ideas formulated as I looked for blueberries, a fruit well-within my baking comfort zone.

Instead, I saw the shiny, inky drupelets that form the blackberry fruit, and my brain delayed telling my hand to reach for the carton. Fractions of a centimeter wide, they intimidated me in their unfamiliarity. What I’m supposed to do with blackberries?  Despite the fruit’s beautiful exterior – the glint of a berry-colored onyx –I generally find the flavor underwhelming, a little too subtle. 

The mythology of the “seasonal fresh fruit” lured me like the sirens’ song. I had a mental picture of my family gathering around a steamy, fruity cobbler bidding peaceful adieu to the weekend. The sumptuous, sweet glob of fruit – peaches or blueberries or raspberries– accompanied by a crust, baked like the sweet memory of a golden day on the beach. 

Including blackberries in the mix was not part of the plan, and I tentatively trusted the results of an internet search: “Blackberry and peach cakey cobbler.” Cakey?

With ingredients arranged on my sister’s ivory-colored island, I assemble my dream: drenching  the sliced peaches and rinsed berries in lemon juice and cinnamon; scoops of flours and powders and sugars made silky with soy milk. If I wondered what “cakey” meant, here I found out: the dough was just that, cakey, not thick and confident like a cobbler. Well, Miles Davis isn’t the only one who can improvise. I married the berries and batter in something of a swirling, mixing ceremony that resulted in the berries mostly nestled in the bottom of the dish, and the dough weaving throughout. Prayers up, oven door opened, in the dish went.

Fifty-five anxious minutes later, I blew gently over what we call “a taste,” not a spoonful but just enough to know if disaster was averted. Nephew’s curly head quickly appeared at my elbow, and confirmed that disaster had, in fact, been averted. 

Sister soon presented plates of spicy pasta, and citrusy Sauvignon Blanc, which we gratefully consumed from the back porch. At the right moment, I set out the cooled cobbler. 

“This is delicious.” Sister-in-law held up a forkful, and nodded. I beamed. 

Within shouting distance, the kids tumbled up and down the grassy hill.