How Blackberry Pie Saved Me

Part of my teen years were spent living in a rural area of Oregon. I was fresh off the boat from California and clueless about what it meant to live in the country. My mom and step dad had purchased a 55 acre neglected piece of property. It was 7 miles from the nearest town which had a population of around 100.  My folks were intent on turning the property back into the farm it once was. Even though they knew nothing about developing property from the literal ground up, they felt hard work and commitment would be enough. 

It was a particularly dark time in my life and the years spent in that area are full of more bad memories than good. We moved the summer prior to my junior year of high school and that August in 1987 was really hot. In between clearing brush, we would take refuge from the heat down in our creek and river frontage we owned along the Umpqua River. It was shady and cool and provided a much needed respite from the penetrating sun.

It was during that time we discovered how prolific blackberries are in Oregon. Our bushes were laden with ripe, purple fruit and the sweet smell of them lingered long after the sun set for the evening.Up until that time I had never even tried a blackberry but our property was full of them and my parents were all about free food so we starting picking them by the bucketful. I ended up eating way more than I picked, my hands and nails stained purple from all the juice.

While developing the property to becoming somewhat livable, we rented a small dumpy house in a neighboring farm town. One evening after we finished working on the property I decided to use some of the berries I had picked and try making my first pie.

Turns out we only had Crisco and wheat flour for the crust and I forgot about any sort of thickener for the berries. It was so horrific it made the enchiladas from the high school cafeteria actually look legit.

 After I turned the oven on and slid the pie in, I noticed a plagues' worth of unidentified bugs racing out from underneath the oven. Upon further investigation also known as screaming, jumping and pointing, it was determined they were cockroaches. Not only were they were under the oven, they were in it as well. I opened the oven door only to be greeted by very toasty cockroaches crawling across the most ugliest pie ever made.

I took a long hiatus from any baking after that.

Only when we had a new oven and a new place to live did I try my hand at baking again. It was a slow process and resulted in many disastrous outcomes before I finally mastered fruit pies. In the midst of living with an abusive step father, baking blackberry pies became my therapy. The simple act of picking the fruit, stirring in the sugar, rolling out the crust and crimping the dough edges revived me and brought me back to life. Only when I was baking did I experience true peace.

I was living with a rage filled, volatile person but for some reason, my step dad would leave me alone when I baked. By the end of it all, I lost count of how many pies I made. 

I know I'm giving way too much credit to a blackberry but I like to believe it was God's way of allowing me to create something good during the bad.

Yesterday I went out to the country. In the middle of nowhere. To a place 7 miles from the nearest town. To a piece of property long forgotten in my mind. This time with my husband. We picked warm sun ripened blackberries, their scent heavy in the late summer heat. Our dogs played in the river. We picked them by the bucketful and once again, I ate more than I picked. This time I laughed at my purple stained hands and nails. I looked at the former home site where I used to bake away my fear and felt a spirit of thanks for my life. I couldn't wait to get home. I had a blackberry pie to make.