I did not grow up eating cobbler. Much like the mystery that always surrounded pineapple upside down cake, it just wasn’t something culturally familiar and as such I ignored it for years.
When I was a graduate student, I was strong-armed into “helping out” with an archaeological field school in the South. In July. In a drought year. Mind you, I’m a paleoanthropologist, and know next to nothing about stone tools and pottery in the Americas (and judging by the poor use of grammar and punctuation around here it is fair to surmise I did not do my undergraduate degree in English).
“It’s OK”, my mentor assured me. “You’ll get to drink beer and drive around it trucks-it’ll be fun.”
Indeed, she forgot to mention the beer would be domestic and warm, and the trucks would be ancient, International Harvester Scouts (anyone remember those heaps? Not much 4-wheelin’ fun to be had there). Unable to resist the lure of free alcohol or angering the person that would be evaluating my thesis, I went.
The university had contracted with a nearby farm family to feed us lunch and dinner each day.
“Wow, this is going to be great” I thought. Being a city dweller most of my life I envisioned fried chicken, corn on the cob, pies cooling on windowsills and every other foolishness I’d gleaned from cartoons in my childhood. What we got was bologna. On white bread. I think it was “Wonder.” Pretty much every day. I sort of remember there was often a bowl of “salad” though, “grass clippings” might be a better description.
Those jokes that begin, “It’s not so much the heat, as the humidity” with some pompous jerk opining about the weather were all-too-accurate descriptions of what we endured for six weeks. Horrible. Being a drought year, the river was quite low. One might expect a river during a drought to smell like the ocean at low tide (pretty unpleasant at that) however the locals had been diverting raw sewage into it for who knows how long and…well, you know.
Hot, stinky, and bologna sandwiches on Wonder bread without a drop of mustard or mayo. After a few weeks, we could stand no more, and a group of us “borrowed” one of those Harvester Scouts and went looking for something beyond bologna and beer for subsistence. You know, hunting and gathering-20th century style.
A few hours later, we hit a very small town much like the one in which I currently reside. We passed a farmhouse with a sign outside indicating that dinner was served nightly. My mind started re-playing those fried chicken and pie cartoons of my youth. We knew it was a gamble but after weeks of what we’d been eating, it was a risk worth taking.
We were greeted by an elderly couple that looked as though Grant Wood had painted them. I don’t recall if she had a brooch, but she might as well have. We were seated in their living room which had been converted into a dining room with oilcloth over card tables, family photographs on the walls. Jokes about various horror movies were made as we waited for our food.
I cannot remember what I ate for dinner. I remember that it was good, but not exceptional. Dessert however was, without exaggeration, the best thing I’ve ever eaten. I realise everyone thinks they have tasted the world’s best peach cobbler-but I genuinely did. Nothing I ever bake will come close to the perfect mixture of juicy peaches, and perfectly dolloped bits of biscuit dough, only slightly sweet. The recipe for cobbler that follows is good-but not that good. Nothing ever could be. Without trivialising drug abuse (which I’m told is a nightmare) it is like an addict chasing their first high-nothing will ever be quite as enjoyable. I could spend the next twenty years eating cobbler day after day and never come close to those rosy/golden peaches tasting faintly of ginger and nutmeg. I couldn’t find the place again if my life depended on it (and the American Gothic couple are likely long gone as this was some twenty years ago) and I wouldn’t want to. Some things ought to be preserved as one-of-a-kind experiences. As a result, I don’t make too many cobblers-not because I dislike them, but because it seems futile. That said, I think you will find the recipe for this cobbler satisfactory. Good even. But not extraordinary-only one cobbler gets that distinction.
You Will Need:
Preheat oven to 375 degrees F.
(To prepare the fruit)
2/3 cup caster sugar (aka “superfine”)
1 ½ tablespoons cornstarch
¾ cup water
4 cups cherries, stone removed (If using tinned, drain well and cut back the water a bit)
1 teaspoon lemon juice
1 ½ teaspoons butter
1 teaspoon vanilla or almond extract
¼ cup sugar for sprinkling the fruit
To prepare the dough)
1 cup sifted, all purpose flour
1/3 cup sugar
1 ½ teaspoons baking powder
½ teaspoon salt
3 tablespoons shortening (solid)
½ cup milk
Mix sugar and cornstarch in a large, heavy pan. Add water slowly and add fruit and lemon juice. Cook over medium heat until cherries are softened and sauce begins to thicken. Remove from heat, add vanilla.
Pour into large casserole dish (at least 1 ½ quart). Dot with butter and sprinkle with sugar.
In a large bowl mix dry ingredients and then cut in the shortening. Add the milk and mix well. Add by spoonful to the top of cobbler. Bake 20-30 minutes.
This is not a “gloppy” pie-like filling. If you prefer a less-juicy filling, use 2 tablespoons cornstarch. You could also eliminate the extra sugar atop the cooked cherries if they are very dark and sweet to begin with.
When I was a graduate student, I was strong-armed into “helping out” with an archaeological field school in the South. In July. In a drought year. Mind you, I’m a paleoanthropologist, and know next to nothing about stone tools and pottery in the Americas (and judging by the poor use of grammar and punctuation around here it is fair to surmise I did not do my undergraduate degree in English).
“It’s OK”, my mentor assured me. “You’ll get to drink beer and drive around it trucks-it’ll be fun.”
Indeed, she forgot to mention the beer would be domestic and warm, and the trucks would be ancient, International Harvester Scouts (anyone remember those heaps? Not much 4-wheelin’ fun to be had there). Unable to resist the lure of free alcohol or angering the person that would be evaluating my thesis, I went.
The university had contracted with a nearby farm family to feed us lunch and dinner each day.
“Wow, this is going to be great” I thought. Being a city dweller most of my life I envisioned fried chicken, corn on the cob, pies cooling on windowsills and every other foolishness I’d gleaned from cartoons in my childhood. What we got was bologna. On white bread. I think it was “Wonder.” Pretty much every day. I sort of remember there was often a bowl of “salad” though, “grass clippings” might be a better description.
Those jokes that begin, “It’s not so much the heat, as the humidity” with some pompous jerk opining about the weather were all-too-accurate descriptions of what we endured for six weeks. Horrible. Being a drought year, the river was quite low. One might expect a river during a drought to smell like the ocean at low tide (pretty unpleasant at that) however the locals had been diverting raw sewage into it for who knows how long and…well, you know.
Hot, stinky, and bologna sandwiches on Wonder bread without a drop of mustard or mayo. After a few weeks, we could stand no more, and a group of us “borrowed” one of those Harvester Scouts and went looking for something beyond bologna and beer for subsistence. You know, hunting and gathering-20th century style.
A few hours later, we hit a very small town much like the one in which I currently reside. We passed a farmhouse with a sign outside indicating that dinner was served nightly. My mind started re-playing those fried chicken and pie cartoons of my youth. We knew it was a gamble but after weeks of what we’d been eating, it was a risk worth taking.
We were greeted by an elderly couple that looked as though Grant Wood had painted them. I don’t recall if she had a brooch, but she might as well have. We were seated in their living room which had been converted into a dining room with oilcloth over card tables, family photographs on the walls. Jokes about various horror movies were made as we waited for our food.
I cannot remember what I ate for dinner. I remember that it was good, but not exceptional. Dessert however was, without exaggeration, the best thing I’ve ever eaten. I realise everyone thinks they have tasted the world’s best peach cobbler-but I genuinely did. Nothing I ever bake will come close to the perfect mixture of juicy peaches, and perfectly dolloped bits of biscuit dough, only slightly sweet. The recipe for cobbler that follows is good-but not that good. Nothing ever could be. Without trivialising drug abuse (which I’m told is a nightmare) it is like an addict chasing their first high-nothing will ever be quite as enjoyable. I could spend the next twenty years eating cobbler day after day and never come close to those rosy/golden peaches tasting faintly of ginger and nutmeg. I couldn’t find the place again if my life depended on it (and the American Gothic couple are likely long gone as this was some twenty years ago) and I wouldn’t want to. Some things ought to be preserved as one-of-a-kind experiences. As a result, I don’t make too many cobblers-not because I dislike them, but because it seems futile. That said, I think you will find the recipe for this cobbler satisfactory. Good even. But not extraordinary-only one cobbler gets that distinction.
You Will Need:
Preheat oven to 375 degrees F.
(To prepare the fruit)
2/3 cup caster sugar (aka “superfine”)
1 ½ tablespoons cornstarch
¾ cup water
4 cups cherries, stone removed (If using tinned, drain well and cut back the water a bit)
1 teaspoon lemon juice
1 ½ teaspoons butter
1 teaspoon vanilla or almond extract
¼ cup sugar for sprinkling the fruit
To prepare the dough)
1 cup sifted, all purpose flour
1/3 cup sugar
1 ½ teaspoons baking powder
½ teaspoon salt
3 tablespoons shortening (solid)
½ cup milk
Mix sugar and cornstarch in a large, heavy pan. Add water slowly and add fruit and lemon juice. Cook over medium heat until cherries are softened and sauce begins to thicken. Remove from heat, add vanilla.
Pour into large casserole dish (at least 1 ½ quart). Dot with butter and sprinkle with sugar.
In a large bowl mix dry ingredients and then cut in the shortening. Add the milk and mix well. Add by spoonful to the top of cobbler. Bake 20-30 minutes.
This is not a “gloppy” pie-like filling. If you prefer a less-juicy filling, use 2 tablespoons cornstarch. You could also eliminate the extra sugar atop the cooked cherries if they are very dark and sweet to begin with.
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