I was lucky to taste the first blueberry last week at the Farmers market, because when I got there, the vendors were almost sold out. People are focused on berries now, expectant, ready. As I walked away from the stand with a flat of blueberries, I vowed to make as many pies as I can in the short season.
I spent many summers outside a small village on the north shore of Lake Winnipesaukee in New Hampshire. On Saturday nights we’d go to the Grange Hall and sit at common tables for supper. The ladies of the village prepared their specialties which might include baked beans, roasted chicken, salads, or home made breads served with local butter.
Pies made from uncultivated blueberries abounded, cakes were studded with berries, and beignet doughnuts were plumped with berry jam. As kids we often picked blueberries in thinly forested hillsides around the banks of lakes. We learned that berries grow on high and low bushes, and as with politics and religion, that people had their favorites. I retain the image of that landscape with its wild rewards because those horizons shaped me.
You could buy berries at small, local markets, but the first choice was to buy from local people who maintained farm stands with produce from their gardens. They were often unattended, so you took what you wanted and left money, or when someone heard you stop they would come outside to talk and collect the cash.
When summer corn ripened, we used to play a game. We’d put the pot of water on the stove to boil, and run to the garden, pick enough corn for our supper, and as we ran back to the house, we’d rip off the husks and remove the silk. The idea was to have the shortest amount of time pass between the moment you picked the corn, and when you ate it. The first hot bite was always tricky. You wanted the experience of the corn’s sweetness immediately, but you had to be careful or you’d burn your mouth. There was high anxiety to get the corn to the table; no one ever needed to be called twice. We waited for everyone to be seated, ready to give ourselves over to the incomparable satisfaction of fresh corn bathed in butter and generously salted.
On Supper nights local people gathered with regular outsiders, like summer people who came every year. There was also the lucky person who happened down a narrow country road at the supper hour, hungry and adventuresome. Cars would be left on the grass, not with the neat regularity of a parking lot, but at odd angles. Everyone would drift toward the door to cluster loosely by a table set up and organized by women who collected the fixed price for supper. The atmosphere was always friendly. It didn’t matter if anyone knew you or not. Local hospitality seemed to convey un-self-consciously that, “You’re here.” You belonged.
Adults drifted into a creaky old hall, and kids would run around. They discovered a room filled with an atmosphere more like a picnic than a restaurant. It was not far removed from home. The noisy buzz of conversation mixed with hunger and anticipation as people found their ways to tables with appetizing food in place. You knew they’d been prepared by ladies bent on showing off heir talent. Their skills also belied a respect for the perfect ingredients they cooked. Breads, baked perfectly golden, had ample shape. The pot of beans were never too sweet. Nothing sparked the sort of competition that made anyone say, “I can make this better.” The townspeople knew exactly who made what; they could read the dish, recognize a bowl.
You sat with family, neighbors, friends and strangers and ate, talked, and ate some more. You could discuss corn, and how good it was when you cooked it quickly from the stalk. You could talk about blueberry Fool and how much you liked it better, or not, than one made with raspberry. You could talk about fishing in the lake, about awakening to the sound of the loons on a foggy morning. You were certain to discuss the crimson leaf which always drew attention to itself on the first of August. It was the signal not that summer was over, but that fall was on its way. Summer was over, we always said, on the 4th of July.
As we ate, light paled and the grange hall drifted into twilight, but people sat and talked and the soft light magically transformed to dark. Night married with the glow of bulbs, like candlelight, reaching outside the window. People who shared the common table for a couple of hours stood up, stretched, relaxed, exchanged the last words about how good that pie was and what wonderful skill the baker had who made it. Someone invariably suggested that it would be good with ice cream.
If you’d like the recipe, visit the website
www.robertreynoldschefstudio.com
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