Blackcap pies

I picked more than two quarts of blackcaps out behind the house. It was raining, and I got soaked, which I sort of liked. Finding berries is cool. You can’t look too hard. They’ll be there in your peripheral vision; approach them from different angles and they’ll be there. It’s satisfying. I don’t have to philosophize more. I had a line in the song, “Good Luck Child:” “Too much trying’s my disease,” partly meaning too much thinking. I’m making two pies for a 4th of July party, one of those more-the-merrier gatherings Michael Ludgate of Ludgate Farms throws frequently for runners, hikers, bikers and musicians who jam on old-time music (I tend to jam solo, and have been on an old-time kick recently, creating strange new versions of songs). Raspberry pie is my favorite. My mom used to make them from berries we grew. The blackcap, or black raspberry version is wonderful. Last year I was so busy with finishing up full-time work and often three or four gigs a week, I didn’t pick any. But I had memories of two years earlier when I’d picked enough to make pies. I can continue on this, picking every few days. I am no expert on crusts because I don’t want hydrogenation, so I buy already-made non-offensive crusts at GreenStar. Maybe I’ll teach myself to make crusts with chilled/nearly frozen oil. My grandmother talked me through the Crisco version some years ago, but I want a healthier version. I have this thing with picking wild berries; it’s free, wonderful, wonderful food, a gift. There’s something spiritual about this for me. I live in the City of Ithaca, and yet have little bits of country around, like the wild space out back. This week, I’ve been in gorges, in amazing nature within the city.

Leave a comment

Add comment