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A French-Inspired Garden and Home by Judith Stringham

Tuesday, June 30, 2015

Wild Alabama Blackberries





A tribute to my mother 

Annie Elizabeth
1930 - 2015 

Wild Alabama blackberries ripen in the warm June sunshine and have been part of my life as far back as I can remember.  My grandmother, then my mother, were the true blackberry pickers in our family.  With nimble fingers stained purple, they picked the berries each summer, filling bucket after bucket, while keeping a wary eye out for hornets and snakes that also were attracted to the wild tangled thorny bushes found in the hedgerows that separated cotton fields. 



Summer dinners and suppers sometimes included fresh berries in milk or sometimes just simply a bowl of fresh berries dusted with sugar that formed a sweet syrup.  

In the South, dinner is the midday meal, and supper is the evening meal. 



Wild berries are small and packed with intense flavor not found in the large cultivated blackberries sold in grocery stores.  Just as you've never tasted a real tomato until you've eaten a home-grown one, you've never tasted blackberries until you've tasted ones growing in the wild. 



Hydrangeas grown in my mother's flower beds bloom during blackberry-picking season.  Hydrangeas and blackberries... one tame in the yard and lovingly tended all year; the other wild and lovingly harvested in June.  Both staples of my mother's southern home and hospitality.  



There were always more than enough berries to share generously with extended family members, neighbors, fellow church members, or "anyone who slowed down long enough" to receive some. 



None went to waste.  What wasn't eaten, was canned for the dark winter months.  Some jars were filled with berries in sugar syrup for cobblers; other jars were filled with sweet blackberry jam to spread on homemade biscuits for breakfast. 



Most of the time, blackberry cobbler was how we ate the fresh blackberries.  Mother made a simple cobbler.  First, butter melted in the pan, followed by a batter of flour, milk, and sugar, and then topped with blackberries in a sugar syrup thickened by boiling.  The batter rose through the berries as the cobbler baked, creating a browned crust on top of the juicy berries. 



This June was Mother's last blackberry season, but she did not pick any.  Rather, after a full week filled with puttering in her garden, planting yet another hydrangea to fill a bare spot, going out to lunch every day with me visiting from Texas, celebrating her 85th birthday with her favorite coconut cake made by her sister-in-law, visiting with her three brothers, having her last supper with my brother's family and me, and going to bed upbeat, happy, and feeling good, she passed from this life as she wanted... peacefully in her sleep.

The loving southern Christian hospitality she exemplified and taught all of us lives on.



My sister-in-law is the keeper of the family tradition of blackberry picking now.  As she picked wild Alabama blackberries growing on her farm this June, she shared them with everyone "who slowed down long enough" to receive them in the true southern-generosity tradition.  

These two jars are ones I gave my dear friends who lovingly cared for our cats while we were in Alabama saying our goodbyes to Mother. 

Blackberry Winter now includes another dimension to its definition for me. 

~~~~❦~~~~
Please join me at these inspiring sites where I am honoring my mother with this tribute. 

Wednesday, June 10, 2015

Wish for a White Flower

Sometimes I think I may have a fairy godmother, 
or perhaps, a tender-hearted angel, who watches over me 
and hears my heart's wishes. 



With all the unusual amounts of rain in May, 
the roadsides are still green into June and, for us in Texas, 
even could be called lush with blooms. 
For the first time, I noticed a large wild shrub 
with graceful fronds loaded with white flowers 
all along the roadsides and near wooded areas. 

Tuesday, June 2, 2015

Homestead Heritage Birthday Outing


There are times that a wave of nostalgia rolls over me, and I long for simpler days.  Like days when watching television was easy, no monthly fee for service, and no antenna dish needed to pick up the high definition signal.  A time when television programs were paid by commercials, a time when the three major channels offered more than reality shows, and a time when I wasn't embarrassed to watch a show with my mother.  A time when the story did not need detailed sexual scenes, coarse language, or graphic violence to be entertaining.  Television producers left something for our active imaginations. I do use my remote control as needed. 


A good friend in repose at the herb garden house could be a Monet painting.    
Instead of lamenting things I cannot change, I enjoy visiting sites and shops that continue to offer quality goods and services created with craftsmanship developed with care and concern. Places that offer beautiful, useful objects built to last, things not found in every store.