A Blackberry Kind of Morning

Last Saturday, my husband Gene and I laced up our shoes and headed out for a morning walk along the country roads near our house. It was a lovely warm morning—not too hot yet, birds singing in the trees, and the roadsides dressed up in elegant Queen Anne’s lace and purple thistle. We were strolling along, admiring those wildflowers and just enjoying each other’s company, when I spotted them—wild blackberries! Oh my!

Just on the other side of a little ditch was a big, glorious patch of them, plumped up fat and heavy from the recent rains. Most were still raspberry pink, but plenty had turned that deep blackish purple that calls, “Come and get me!” We looked at each other, and without any deliberation, we carefully stepped through the brush—avoiding touching poison ivy leaves, keeping an eye out for snakes—and when we finally reached those bushes, we feasted. For a solid ten minutes, both of us shoveled berries into our mouths like there was no tomorrow—like a couple of children who’d never heard of manners. I don’t regret eating a single one.

Finding wild blackberries has a way of taking me straight back to my childhood in Bonaire. When we moved into the family home on Lake Placid Drive, there was an empty field behind the house that, every spring, erupted into a wild blackberry patch. I’d arm myself with a large Tupperware container and head out there to pick as many as I could carry home. Then I’d bring them into the kitchen to my mother, who was wonderful about converting those berries into a blackberry cobbler—butter, sugar, flour, milk, and those fresh-picked berries all coming together into something almost holy. I can still see her cobblers rising and browning in the oven. And the aroma—I loved the way those cobblers smelled. Someone should bottle that fragrance! There is nothing on this earth quite like it. We’d eat cobbler while it was still warm. It paired perfectly with a big, cold glass of milk. Simple goodness, through and through.

These days, we buy berries from the grocery store like everybody else—those plastic clamshell containers filled with big, thumb-sized blackberries grown in other states and countries. And yes, they are delicious. But they are no match for the experience of stumbling upon a thorny tangle of wild bushes out in the middle of nowhere—like discovering a treasure chest when you weren’t even looking for gold. There’s just something about the surprise of it all, then standing right there in the brush, eating berries until your hands and mouth and lips are stained deep purple and the tiny seeds are wedged between your teeth. No grocery store can match those moments.

Our Texas family has introduced us to dewberries, a close cousin of the blackberry that trails low along the ground rather than growing on upright shrubs. Gene’s mother has served us dewberry cobbler topped with a scoop of vanilla ice cream, and I’ll tell you, it’s pretty close to what we do here in Georgia with our freshly found blackberries. Different vine, same delicious joy.

And so today, I’m giving a big shout-out to blackberries—one of God’s many sweet blessings to us. May we find a bunch, eat many without the thorns getting the better of us, and may we never forget to be thankful for the simple, purple-stained gifts that the warm season puts right in our path.

Simple Blackberry Cobbler

1 stick of real butter, melted 1¼ cups sugar, divided 1 cup self-rising flour 1 cup whole milk 2 cups fresh blackberries Melt your butter. Pour 1 cup of the sugar and flour into a mixing bowl, whisking in milk and mixing well. Pour in melted butter and stir it all together. Butter a baking dish. Rinse and pat dry your blackberries. Pour the batter into the buttered baking dish, then add your blackberries on top. Sprinkle the remaining ¼ cup of sugar over the top. Bake at 350 F for about an hour, or until golden and bubbly on top. Serve your cobbler warm with whipped cream or vanilla ice cream on top, if desired. Enjoy!