Blackberry pie

We thought about walking to the back of the property, meandering through the waist-high grass on right side of the house as we'd done with the pasture on the left. In the end, though, we climbed into the SUV and drove just to see how far it went.

"Somebody could have a crystal meth lab back here, and we'd never know," my friend said of their country house as we bounced through the grass.

Neighbors cut their grass, bailed their hay and used the pasture for their horses. While I cleaned out the car, another asked in his soft, Cajun accent if he could use their yard for training his dogs; my friends didn't mind. Their country house came with seven acres or so, more than they would ever use.

It did not, however, come with a crystal meth lab, as far as we could tell as we bounce. Just blackberries, ripe and sweet, glistening in sun. We stopped to pick one or two and just kept going as the brambles tore at our skin and clothes.

"You have brambles," I said. "And a thicket."

We played with the words, blackberries, brambles and thicket, as we picked. My college friend got a cup from the car and then a bag as we filled first the one and then the other.

"We should make a pie," he said even though none of us knew anything about baking a blackberry pie. "I wish I had my Blackberry so I could see how much we need."

Blackberry, blackberries. I estimated six to eight cups and we all kept picking, dots of blood and sweat on the backs of our hands, our arms, from the prickly stalks. Twice I brushed against a plant that seemed to spit, large, glisten gobs waited on leaves for some poor passerby.

"I hope that isn't poison ivy," my college friend said.

"It doesn't look like poison ivy," I replied, but it did seem suspect. A plant that spit.

We'd all shower when we got back to the house, popping allergy pills in attempt to stave off any attacks brought about by our sudden desire to do something wholesome out in the country. As far as I know, none of us succumbed to the spitting plant or poison ivy. Though, my hands, my right hand and both forearms are covered with scratches, bumbs and welts. The same with my legs. I already had a burn on my bicep from baking the cookies; I have a matching one on the back of my wrist from the pie because we did bake a pie.

Two of them.

We had a slight issue with the oven temp as the berries bubbled from the store bought shell and the top of the lattice work burnt at the edges. Someone found a rolling pin and I made another shell from scratch, not my greatest strength, and we scooped the insides from one pie into the other.

Later, as the pie baked, the rain would crash down in a fit of thunder and lightening, watering the trees my friends had bought and planted that morning. A pear. A Celeste fig for my friend, NOLA Celeste. Jazz Fest turned into a wet, muddy mess or so we heard when we went to a post-festival party. Outside. In the rain. Most people had bailed, on the party at least. The ones that we met were diehard festivalers and drinkers, far drunker than us with our single glass of wine.

"It was serious rain," people said. "It was monsoon rain."

We'd driven through some of it. By the time we got to the party, it alternated between steady drizzle and pelting downpour. We didn't stay long.

We'd end up at a bar with another friend who'd also been at the festival. He came home with us after work, after the bar, and enjoy a slice of pie.

"We picked the berries ourselves."


Tag: Louisiana Baking