Meemaw's Cobbler

“You gotta start with a good sturdy bowl.” My Meemaw’s words carry across the kitchen as my hands find a duck egg blue ceramic bowl, the housewarming gift she gave me. I place it on the countertop, lay out the ingredients needed and preheat the oven to 365F.

Filling:

6-7 medium pears, peeled and chopped into chunks

The sunlight danced its way through the kitchen casting a marigold glow on whatever dared to disturb its art.

“Run on out and fetch me the pears,” Meemaw would call, and I’d dutifully run out back, barefoot through the grass towards the pear tree.

Grand in stature, elaborate shade, the pear tree belonged on a postcard. It was where I spent my afternoons, waiting for Meemaw to call me in for supper.

Standing on tiptoes to reach the juiciest looking pears, I would pick as many as my little arms could carry and rush back to the kitchen, dropping a couple along the way, proudly showing Meemaw the pile I gathered for her.

1/2 teaspoon of cinnamon

The scent wafts through to my bedroom, waking my taste buds before my eyes open. It could mean only one thing, Meemaw’s Christmas cinnamon rolls. I open my bedroom door simultaneously with my sisters, they know the smell too. We rush downstairs, guided by the promise of cinnamon sweetness. Bypassing the gifts Santa carefully laid under the tree, we turn into the kitchen just in time to see steam escaping as Meemaw pulls a tray of large cinnamon rolls from the oven before turning to say, “Merry Christmas my babies.”

1/2 vanilla pod, split and scraped

“I can’t do it,” I wailed, stomping my foot, putting the knife down.

“Now, now,” Meemaw replied in her soothing tone, “ain’t no use giving up. Pick that knife back up”

She envelopes my hands in hers, steering the silver tip towards the long black pod and slicing it in one smooth motion. Turning the knife over in my hand, we gently press down and scrape the tiny, flavourful beans.

“Now look at that,” she says, “we all need a little help sometimes, but we don’t ever give up.”

Juice and zest of 1/2 a lemon

Looking in the distance I can see the heat, wavy and dry. It’s a scorching summer’s day, too hot to move. The shade offered by the pear tree provides some relief for me and my sisters as we lay in its shadow, fanning ourselves.

Suddenly, my ears pick up a gentle clinking. The sound of a wooden spoon swirling liquid and ice cubes in a tall glass pitcher. I look towards the porch and see Meemaw strolling towards us, a large tray out in front carrying three clear glasses and the pitcher containing summer’s liquid gold.

“Thought I’d fix y’all some lemonade,” she says, placing the tray down in the shade.

Liquid beads drizzle down the glass as she pours each of us a generous cupful before we eagerly drink. Refreshing deliciousness cementing the memory in our minds.

1/2 cup of granulated sugar

“Flat palm, remember. Just like that,” Meemaw instructs as I reach my hand out in front of me, sugar cube balancing delicately.

This is the best part of my riding lessons with Meemaw. With sore legs and sweat dripping from my forehead I’m glad to be back in the stables thanking Biscuit for behaving. His chin whiskers tickle my palm as he graciously accepts his treat.

I turn around and see Meemaw’s silhouette against the barn door looking out at the sun setting against the plains.

“When I was a girl, not much older than you, I would ride out there every day at dusk, just to watch the sun set,” she says dreamily, pointing towards the small hill to the right.

“Soon, I’ll be good enough to ride out there with you, Meemaw,” I tell her.

Turning to me with a gentle smile upon her face she says, “the only thing more beautiful than that sunset is watching it with my grandbaby.”

4 tablespoons of cornstarch and 4 tablespoons of water

“That’s it, pour the water right in the bowl” Meemaw guides as she sprinkles the cornstarch in. “Now stir it up good.”

My three-year-old hand grips the wooden spoon as I mix the cobbler filling. Meemaw is standing behind me, music notes floating melodically from her mouth to my ears.

“My, my, that’s some mighty fine mixing you doin’ there. I think it’s ‘bout time for the toppin’ don’t you?” She says, helping me pour the filling into her favourite buttercup yellow dish.

Crust:

1 ½ cups of all-purpose flour

Seemingly in slow motion, I watch the floury mist fall around me. A fist full thrown up in the air just to see what would happen. I was left alone for two minutes before Meemaw walked into a snowlike wonderland. In that instant I froze, realising the mess surrounding me, until her hand slowly makes its way to the container marked ‘flour’. Walking towards me, Meemaw grabs my hand and thrusts her arm upwards, releasing the white meal concealed in her enclosed fingers. Flour rains down as we dance in its wonderful shower.

1/2 cup of brown sugar

Patting the sand down firmly with the back of my spade, I quickly turn the bucket over and lift it up revealing the perfect sculpture left standing.

“Look Meemaw,” I call out, “I made a sugar castle.”

“Well, if that isn’t the most beautiful sand-castle,” she replies, feigning impressiveness.

“It’s not a sand-castle, it’s a sugar castle. Like the sugar you use for your cakes.”

Meemaw sits down next to me and pushes the damp sand through her fingers, letting it fall onto her swimsuit, as if mesmerised by the similarity.

“You’re right, baby. This feels just like the brown sugar I use at home. Whatcha say we make another sugar castle?”

4 tablespoons of butter, melted

Fried chicken, grits, pies, honey butter. Anything Meemaw made would be the tastiest dish we’d ever eaten.

“How do you make all your food so yummy, Meemaw? Mama’s doesn’t taste like your does.” I ask with childlike innocence.

Leaning in close she whispers in my ear, “that’s because your Mama doesn’t use my magic ingredient.”

My eyes widen at the mention of magic.

“You have magic?” I whisper back, fascinated.

“Just the one ingredient, but that one ingredient makes almost everything taste magic,” She says.

“What is it?” I ask, desperate to know.

Slicing off a chunk of butter and placing it in the pot Meemaw says with a wink, “it’s a secret.”

1/4 teaspoon of salt

Sprinkling the salt in the mixing bowl, Meemaw automatically tosses the crystals remaining in her hand over her left shoulder.

“Meemaw, why do you do that?” I ask as if seeing her do this for the first time.

“It’s for luck, baby. My Meemaw did it, her Meemaw did it, and her Meemaw did it.”

“Does it work?” I say, mesmerised at the thought of something so simple bringing luck.

“You don’t fix what ain’t broken, child.”

As if that was all the convincing I needed, I grab the salt, pour a white mound into my hand and throw it over my left shoulder.

“More salt means more luck, right?” I ask, seeing the shock on Meemaw’s face.

A hearty laugh escapes her lips, “just a pinch will bring you all the luck you need.”

2/3 cup of milk

Sitting alone at the dinner table, a half empty glass of milk sits next to my head buried in my arms in an attempt to hide my reddening nose and quiet my sobs. I feel a comforting hand gently placed on my back.

“There, there, baby. Tell Meemaw why you cryin’.”

“I have… no… friends. I… will never… have any friends,” I say between sniffles.

Meemaw tilts my chin up and wipes the tears from my cheeks.

“I know you feel that way right now, and boy, some of them kids can be cruel, but you listen here, “she says, “you will always have your Mama, your sissies and me, so don’t you go thinking you alone in this world. You’ll find your way and have a lifetime of friends waiting for you.”

I sniff away my last tear as Meemaw says, “now how ‘bout some cookies to go with that milk?”

2 teaspoons of baking powder

Adding the last ingredient to the bowl, I watch as my spoon mingles the wet with the dry until neither exists, in their place a soft dough appears.

“Don’t over mix it now,” Meemaw’s voice says. “Go on and dollop it on real good. Don’t be delicate with it. This ain’t one of those fancy cobblers,” I hear as I scoop dough onto the filling.

Thirty-five minutes later, peering into the oven I see caramelized juices bubbling around the golden crust.

“Ahh, perfect,” I say, slipping on my floral oven mitts.

Waiting just long enough not to burn my mouth, I plunge a spoon into the pear cobbler, scooping a serving into my bowl. Flavour dripping onto the counter, I raise my fork towards the framed photo staring back at me, “this one’s for you Meemaw.”