A Very Berry Fourth

I was invited to a bar-b-q for the Fourth, and I just couldn’t show up empty handed.  Three boxes of berries, gifted earlier in the week, were discovered in the fridge.  Maybe I’ll make a Cobbler, I confidently told Lea.  Sure, that’s easy, she reassured; aware of my skill level.  Finding nothing in my trio of cookbooks I searched online, keywords Easy-Berry-Cobbler.

I started with Rachael Ray; she reminds me of Gidget and she’s a familiar face from BC’s bag of food.   You know how it goes…Items of Interest… so I traveled to the Pioneer Woman (of course) and a berry producer, cut-and-pasting various recipes I’ll never attempt, until I realized all the cobblers seems to be pretty much the same: one part this, one part that.  Sounds like gravy, and I’ve made that.

Ridiculously long recipes, their splashy photos were huge affairs with miniscule lines of instruction; often accompanied by a poem or ditty.  They’ve all published a book and some have a show.  My arthritic hands ached as I scrolled, until I realized they put the condensed recipes at the bottom.  Aw hell, I gotta try this myself...

Andie J’s Starving Artist Berry Cobbler

 “There once was a gal from Nantucket”

 

I think you’re supposed to wash ‘em first

“Whose opinion of baking was F-it"
 

 I won’t know how to clean the countertop if it stains

 

 “She said with a grin"

 

Don't disturb the berries!
 

  “As she wiped off her chin”

 

Flip ‘em to dry other side

 

“If my Cobbler’s too tough I just dunk it!”

 

EUREKA!  Look what I found?  It’s hot, I wasn’t sure I’d have enough propane, and since I have plenty of berries, I can keep some for myself.  Those nigh-identical recipes all call for 350 degrees for about an hour, and lucky for me the plug has numbers.

I’m not so sure about those squishy ones.
What’s that…mold?  If in doubt, leave 'em out.

Looks enticing; at least the fruit flies think so.  Hope the fake-butter works, but they’re joking with the, “Prep time 10-15 minutes.”   I began over an hour ago and I still haven’t preheated the skillet.  Glancing around, I remind myself I’m college-educated; I should be able to handle this.  Shoot…I forgot I’ll have to double the milk, too.

Time to gear up for Part II with (black) coffee and a smoke.

Nice white ingredients.  Remember…it’s one-and-a-half-times….oh hell, I’ll just double the recipe and I won’t need to clean as many measuring cups.

Why would they assume everyone knows how much is a stick of butter?  All the wrapping says is ½ cup = 8 Tablespoons.   There are 16 lines on this package so I’m using the whole thing.

 

At 350, it was frying like a doughnut.  So I looked in Mom’s vintage instruction booklet, and while I couldn’t find Cobblers, I did turn it down to 225.

An hour and 35 minutes, it’s still not golden.  Does twice as big mean twice as long???  Maybe I should leave the lid off.

Two hours later, I de-greased the pan.

  

I finally cut out a corner with a hacksaw.  An inch of semi-burnt flexible sugar, the fruit tasted pretty good.  I’ll just scrape it off and put it in a pretty serving dish; whatever clumps of batter tagging along for the ride MUST be cooked.  Now I know why they only publish a tiny portion of the dish up front.

“What did you bring?” the hostess asked.

  

 

“I have no idea, but I’ve been at it for 4 hours.  It’s fruit, I guess.”

  

 I placed it among the other delicious looking desserts, and took off before anyone knew it was mine.  Bless her, the hostess said it was delicious on ice cream, but what doesn't taste good on ice cream?  No one can say I didn't try; even missed the Parade at 11.  And believe it or not, there was still plenty to bring home, now rotting in my fridge.  Again.
 

Ingredients:

Three containers overripe fruit

One inappropriate pan

One inept cook

Liberal dashes of perseverance, humor, and...

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