Blueberry Pie

When I was a kid, going up to Maine to see my grandparents always involved food. Cucumbers straight from the garden doused with vinegar and seasoned with salt and pepper, molasses crinkles that dissolved into aromatic hints of spices in your mouth, dill pickles that Grammy and Grandpa had canned themselves ("146 quarts this year") and pies upon pies upon pies. Apple. Strawberry. Chocolate. Pumpkin. Mincemeat. Pecan. And Blueberry.

Ah, Blueberries. Just the very word makes my mouth water and sends memories flashing into my mind, each crowding the other for a prominent position. I would assume that in most homes blueberries are enjoyed a few times a year and then forgotten as the members move on to other foods and other seasons. But in my family, blueberries have a status equivalent to gold.

I suppose it's mostly because the blueberries in Maine, picked wild, are smaller, sweeter and blue-er than cultivated ones where I live now. The berries pop pleasantly as they meet your teeth, bursting spatters of flavor. But it's not just that...it's also because a handful of that fruit takes me places.

It takes me to my Grammy's table where a small bowl of berries always sat during the month of August and was constantly being emptied and then magically refilled.

It takes me to sleepy mornings, waking up to the smell of blueberry muffins wafting into the attic room and hurrying downstairs to scarf down a few before everyone else polished them off.

It takes me to the backwoods, logging roads of Moosehead Lake where my Grandpa would navigate his truck through forest, high bushes and standing water to reach the place where the berries grew. We'd silently compete with each other to see who could fill their pail the fastest, stepping over burned brush and bending low to reach the small bushes. Tiny gnats would bite at you and your back would ache, but being out there with nothing around but mountains, pines and the sounds of berries hitting the pails was glory. Sometimes you'd find a goldmine and sit and pick until your pail was full. Then we'd return to the truck to see who had picked the most. Then it was back to the cabin to stain our mouths blue as Grammy picked over the berries to make pie.

And what a pie. A golden flaky crust, that bled royal when sliced, with dark berries tumbling and juice pooling as the piece was precariously transferred to your waiting plate. Each bite treasured because time was short and it'd be a whole 'nother year before you had that taste again.

Blueberry Pie

Makes 1 10-inch pie
Total Time: 

Pastry for 1 pie

4 cups blueberries (preferably, hand-picked, wild ones from Maine =)

1 cup sugar

2 T. flour

1/4 tsp. nutmeg
dash salt

1 T. butter, cut in little pieces

Prepare your pie dough. Roll out half of the dough and line a 10 inch pie plate with it.

There's instructions here for how to make and roll out pie dough.

In a small bowl, mix together sugar, flour, nutmeg and salt.

Spread 1/4 cup of the sugar mixture in the bottom of your pie pan.

Dump in the blueberries.

No need to wash them beforehand.

Sprinkle the rest of the sugar mixture on top and dot with small pats of butter.

Then top your pie with second crust, crimp, poke holes in the center and spread with cream.

Again, see details here.

Bake for 30 - 40 minutes at 425 degrees, until top is golden and berry filling is bubbling.

Best served warm (in my opinion!)

Recipe from my Grammy.