On Monday afternoon we picked up our Fresh Air girl from the bus stop and on Friday morning she went back to NYC. 

 

She was fascinated with mud balls. 

I found her bringing them into the house to get them wet in the sink.

Sadly, I can’t say I’m sad that she left early. Our girl was a handful. In fact, as she came off the bus, the escort looked at me and said, “Oh, she’s your girl.” And then she shook her head, grinned, and muttered under her breath, “Good luck.” 

 

First time in a creek.
In fact, I’m not sure she even knew what a creek WAS before she came to our house.

Our Fresh Air girl’s behavior wasn’t really her fault, of course, and this is what makes me feel so bad about the whole situation. She was just a child, a little eight-year-old girl, bless her heart. A little girl who loved romping with the dog, playing in the mud, helping me in the kitchen, listening to stories, and who had a sweet streak. I spent my days waffling between being irritated and frustrated with her and feeling motherly and kind (though towards the end, I had less of the later and more of the former).

 

I had to mediate EVERY Uno game because the rules in her “country” were different than they are in our “country.” (I think she got the idea that we live in a different country because she was visiting the country. Get it?)

Even so, she didn’t return to NY because of us and our frustrations. We said we’d be willing to work with the (nonexistent) homesickness, so knowing that it wasn’t our fault that she went home early helped to ease the sting of rejection. Well, that fact and our relief.

 

She snapped green beans faster than my own kids.

The last night she was here, we went to the Fresh Air picnic and pool party. It was encouraging to interact with the other families and hear their stories, many of which were good, if not flat-out wonderful. They said things like, “Our child is wonderful. Fits right in!” and “Our child is super polite!” and “Our girl has never given us one minute of trouble!” I found myself staring at one Fresh Air girl in particular, a gorgeous, poised teenager. She was friendly! She joked with adults! She took care of other people’s babies without being asked! She helped her host mom clean up the picnic area! Stressed and frustrated with how hard our experience was turning out to be, I couldn’t help but feel jealous. I longed to connect with a host child, to develop the sort of lasting bond that so many other host families had.

She wanted the (spot)light on.

I can’t quite bring myself to end this post with some pat line about how we’ll do it again next year, because for a couple days there it was pretty bleak. But now we’ve come out on the other side more experienced, wiser, and none the worse for wear, and I’m feeling more positive. Like yes? We probably will do it again? 

One boiling hot afternoon while the two older kids were at camp, I took the two younger ones to Barnes and Noble to do some book reading in the icy air conditioning. (It was cold, brrrr cold. I was actually relieved to get my goose-bumped skin back into the sunshine.)

Taking my kids to B&N doesn’t mean that I read to them, no, no, no, no. It means that we each grab a stack of books, find a corner, and sink into our own personal cloud of new-book smells. It’s very nice. (The littlest did have trouble just reading for all that time, but B&N thoughtfully has that Tank the Thomas—or Thomas the Tank, whatever—train set and lots of annoying, battery-powered educational toys for little kids to play with. His biggest fascination, though, was arranging and rearranging the boxes of stuffed animals…until I told him to stop.)

On my way back to the children’s section I picked up several cookbooks (I’m obsessed, yes), one of which was Heidi Swanson’s new book. I jotted down a couple recipes that caught my eye, but so far I’ve only made one: the caramelized cherry tomatoes. I haven’t been able to move beyond it yet.

I have a well-documented, long-lasting, and steamy relationship with roasted tomatoes. Some might even call it a love affair. Roasted tomatoes and I have messed around together in the following ways:

1. Romas roasted and then frozen for winter lunches of grilled cheese, pesto, and roasted tomato sandwiches.
2. Paste tomatoes quick roasted for a luscious canned tomato sauce.
3. Tomato bread pudding, which is just a vehicle for more roasted tomatoes. A vehicle that’s also loaded down with cream, cheese, herbs, garlic, and bread, swoon.
4. Oh yes, and the infamous roasted cherry tomato and summer squash pasta.

So considering that sultry history, I wasn’t sure if Heidi’s caramelized cherry tomatoes would offer anything new for my roasted tomato jaded self.

But, oh wondrous surprise, they did.

These cherry tomatoes are like candy, all sweet and juicy and slightly sticky-chewy around their caramelized edges. I ate them like I eat candy, too—in quick succession and way too many. And then I felt kind of like I do after I eat too much candy: sick to my tummy-wummy.

So treat these treats like treats, hear? Consumed correctly, they are guaranteed to make your life immeasurably sweeter. Especially when plopped into grilled cheese sandwiches, on crackers spread with cream cheese, or into bowls filled with pesto-y pasta and chopped boiled eggs.

That last option was a real winner (and, if I’m being honest, the only one I’ve actually tried). I didn’t follow any recipe for the pesto and it was splendid: a food processor full of fresh basil, a couple cloves of garlic, a hunk of butter, some Parmesan, S&P, and a drizzle of olive oil to smooth it all out. No nuts or nothing, and as a result the flecks of basil were larger and the finished dish was more mellow. So lovely.

Caramelized Cherry Tomatoes
Adapted from Heidi Swanson’s book Super Natural Every Day

4 cups cherry tomatoes, washed and halved
½ cup olive oil
2 tablespoons sugar
1 scant teaspoon salt

Toss all the ingredients together in a large bowl. Dump everything into a sided baking dish and roast at 350 degrees for 45-60 minutes, watching closely to make sure they don’t burn (though they should get slightly blackened).

Allow the caramelized tomatoes to cool a little before scraping the pan’s contents into a jar and storing in the refrigerator. (You may add more olive oil to the jar if you wish, says Heidi, though I never needed to.)

This same time, years previous: down in the peach pits

July went out in a whirlwind, the same whirlwind that August arrived on. Or “in,” not sure which.

I feel scattered, hoppy, and slightly panicked. I’m learning that I get this way whenever there’s an unknown. No matter how minor the unknown, it stresses me out and makes me feel kind of flail-y, like a drowning person. I like having a handle on things. It’s why I prefer the shallow side of the pool to the deep end.

And boy, this analogy could make a Readers Digest article, no?

I’m not going there.

I made three blackberry pies last week, and apparently, the third time’s the charm.

The kids went berry picking three times, too, and the third time (my brother took them) they saw a black bear! It beat its chest and roared and then charged them, snatched their plastic ice cream buckets right out of their hands, and commenced to filling them up with berries lickety-sizzle.

Not really.

But they did see a bear and it did stand up and look around. I’m so jealous of them.

I got me two more gallons of blackberries and I didn’t even have to go anywhere. You ought-a be jealous.

It was with the second batch of berries, however, not the third, that I made the Third Time’s the Charm Blackberry Pie.

Which reminds me of the name of the huckleberry pie that I entered in a pie contest (and won) when I was a young teenager: Almost Heaven Dolly Sods Huckleberry Pie.

So in keeping with the theme of braggy pie titles, I think I’ll call this pie “Dam Good Blackberry Pie.” Get it? Get it? The berries came from a dam, see? Dang, I’m clever. (Though non-regular readers perusing my recipe index will think I can’t spell.)

But before I tell you what’s so good about the pie, I’ll tell you what I did and did not like about the other two pies.

Pie Number One: Blackberry Streusel Pie

What I did not like: the filling had too many ingredients (thermflo and tapioca? Come on, that’s overkill), the filling had melted butter (again, overkill), and the filling had water (why, pray tell?). Also, I have a hard time getting my streusels all-the-way baked and this one was no exception. The underside was a little glue-y.

What I liked: the almond-oatmeal streusel had a lovely almond crunch, and the filling was tasty.

Pie Number Two: Lattice-Top Blackberry Pie
What I did not like: the filling was dry-ish, not sweet enough, and contained lemon zest (which made the already not-sweet-enough berries more bitter). Also, the cinnamon and almond extract were extemporaneous.

What I liked: the lattice top! This was my first real, true-blue lattice weave. As in I used a ruler to cut my strips and then actually wove them. I wowed myself. And have henceforth and hitherto promised that I shall forevermore top my pies with a lattice weave. It’s too much fun not to.

Pie Number Three: A Damn Good Blackberry Pie
What I did not like: nothing!

What I liked: everything! But most specifically, the streamlined nature of the pie (tapioca was the only thickener), that there was enough sugar, and the presence of another beautiful and momentous lattice top. It was perfect.

This is what happens when you cut into a still-warm blackberry pie. You get blackberry soup. Which is a never-ending puddle of temptingness because the sauce keeps oozing into the empty pan space.

Look at that! Free refills!

So then you have to move the pie to the jelly cupboard so you’ll stop eating the pie’s insides. ‘Cause you know it will be really disappointing for the rest of the family to get served a yummy butter crust and a gorgeous lattice weave top but no filling in between the two.

A few hours in the cupboard and the pie had set up beautifully.

I photographed it and then took the photo shoot piece out to my husband, a.k.a. the grease monkey.

Then, of course, I had to run back inside for my camera because dirty, greased-up hands eating an ethereal pie while the sun goes down may make the best photo shoot ever, though I don’t think they tell you that in food photography school. (If people think these dirty feet are bad, then they’ll be horrified by my model’s hands. Sorry!)

(Actually, no I’m not.)

Damn Good Blackberry Pie

Five tablespoons of tapioca will make the filling stiff enough to slice nicely. With four tablespoons it will be a little softer, but still not runny. I think I prefer it on the softer side.

The observant among you will notice there are some red raspberries in the pie. It’s because I had a handful of them sitting on the counter so I threw them over the pie right before I put the top on.

6 cups blackberries
1 cup sugar
4-5 tablespoons instant tapioca (see head note)
2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice
1 recipe rich butter pastry

Gently toss the blackberries, sugar, tapioca, and lemon juice together in a large bowl. Allow the mixture to rest for about 30 minutes, stirring occasionally.

Line the bottom of a 9 or 10 inch pie plate with one of the crusts, spoon in the filling, and top with a lattice weave. Bake the pie at 400 for 30 minutes before reducing the heat to 350 degrees and baking another 30 minutes. Cool for 3 to 4 hours before cutting and serving…unless you don’t mind eating pie soup.

Pie baking hint: I think I finally got my methods down pat. I bake the pie directly on the bottom rack at 400 degrees until the pie filling starts juicing up (for the blackberry it took about 30 minutes). Then I turn the heat back to 350 and put the pie on a foil lined metal baking pan and continue baking till it was done. (When the edges start to get too dark, I cover them with a foil liner.) This methods gives you a pie with toasty brown bottom crust, slightly singed edges (oops), and a completely baked top crust.

This same time, years previous: dimply plum cake, tomato bread pudding