Mammy's Peach Cobbler

Today was the day. The peaches were ripe, so heavy on the tiny peach tree that the overloaded branches almost touched the ground. I could smell the sweet, mouth watering scent of the near-bursting fruit. But before I was allowed to enjoy how the peaches would explode with juice from a simple bite, I had to spend the time to pick the best ones.

My tiny nine year old frame can swing the empty five gallon bucket like a windmill and I plop it down, adjusting my too big straw hat and get to work. With each twist and pluck, the tree groans with relief and the branches start to bounce back. I see the perfect one, just barely out of my reach; it is unblemished, round and my tongue instinctively licked my lips. I sneak the impeccable peach into my shirt pocket and pat it against my chest.

I can feel the sweat dripping down the small of my back and my arms begin to ache. I hoist the nearly full and tremendously heavy bucket into my arms, careful not to squish the flawless treat hidden carefully on my person. I cannot wait to show off my haul to the sweet woman standing and watching me struggle with the bucket.

My smile grows wider and wider the closer I get to her, seeing her stand there holding the door open and beckoning me inside. Her eyes sparkled as she ran her free hand through her silver, curly hair and shielded her face from the hot Texas sun.

“Hurry up sweet girl, you’ve got quite the heavy load,” my Mammy says. I cannot waddle fast enough through the door and into the blessed air conditioning.

The scent of her kitchen…I’ll never forget it. It smelled of sugar and cinnamon and a tremendous amount of love. I set the bucket down gently on the linoleum floor and reach up to pull the secret perfect peach from my pocket to offer it to her.

“My goodness, that’s the best one I’ve ever seen!” my Mammy exclaims as she splits the peach in half to share it with me.

The scent of it wafts to my nose before I can touch it to my lips; I can feel my jaw tighten with the anticipation of the juiciest bite. My teeth rip through the tender skin and pull the flesh of the fruit into my mouth, my eyes drifting close and searing the moment to my memory.

I can hear Mammy chuckle as she chews on her half and we turn to walk into the kitchen. There, laid out in meticulous order, are the many ingredients we need to make the most mouth watering cobbler in the entire state of Texas (or so she’s told me). She clicks the old reliable oven to life at 375 degrees.

I pull the ripest peaches from the bucket and hop on the rickety step stool to start slicing them, adding them to the bowl of sugar and flour, stealing bites and tossing the pits into the trash. None of the slices were even; some were too small, some had uneven lines, and my slicing skills were mediocre at best but it didn’t matter.

Mammy was hard at work mixing the topping: more flour, more sugar, baking powder, cinnamon and salt as the cast iron skillet sat on the stove top melting the butter. I can hear her humming softly as she stirs the filling, a soft smile on her face as looks to the small granddaughter standing at her side. I can see the love, the overwhelming love, in her eyes. Her smile always lit up the room and her laughter could shake down the walls.

She takes a pot holder and grasps the heated handle of the cast iron skillet and gestures for me to pour the peach slices into the warmed butter. With sizzles and plops, my task is complete and she returns the skillet to the stove top to load it to the brim with her perfect topping. The smell can only be described as luscious and it lingered in my nose as she slid the skillet into the oven.

My Mammy turns to me, stretches out her hand to help me down from my perch, and we walk to the living room to finish our favorite movie. We are terribly distracted as we wait the horribly long 40 minutes until it’s ready, the ice cream teasing us from the freezer.

After what seems like an eternity, Mammy claps her hands together and hops up from the couch and jogs to the kitchen the instant the timer dings. Using her hand made apron, she pulls the piping hot cast iron out and sets it on the trivet to cool.

I am her shadow, directly behind her, my arm around her waist as we sniff the air and hear our stomachs growl.

“Get the ice cream out so it can soften,” Mammy tells me and I jump into action. She opens the cabinet to pull out bowls and I open the drawer for the ice cream scoop.

Mammy begins to load the bowls full of peachy sweetness. I top it off with scrumptious homestyle vanilla bean ice cream and it instantly melts into the cobbler. It cools it off, but only barely; it is now a creamy bowl of pure perfection.

We return to the living room with our spoils and finish the movie. It is a perfect summer afternoon. I fall asleep, belly full of amazing peach cobbler, with my head resting against my Mammy’s arm.

We lost her only a few years later to cancer. I still miss her voice, how she would hug me and tell me how much she loved me. I’ve been told I look like her and that makes my heart skip a beat and brings tears to my eyes, even after all these years.

I have my own children now, children that love to help me make peach cobbler. I hum and laugh with them, hug them and tell them how much I love them. There are times I can almost feel my Mammy standing behind me, smiling. It was never about the recipe; it was always about the love that came with it.