This past Sunday Anne and I went to a wedding up in northern Michigan. The ceremony was on a balcony overlooking the water, and the reception was outside at a beautiful old cherry farm, complete with pie and dancing in the 100-plus-year-old barn. It was a perfect day. The bride is one of my oldest childhood friends, almost like a second little sister. She's my little sister's best friend - my sister was a bridesmaid, and she will be a bridesmaid(matron?) in my sister's wedding in November. It was so sweet and almost surreal seeing them together like that; beautiful, composed, tender-hearted, on the cusp of the great adventure of marriage. Supporting each other, standing side by side, just like they have done almost since birth. I saw so many people who aren't part of my daily life anymore, but who were fixtures in my childhood. Familiar as my own parents, my childhood home. It's so miraculous and strange to go back, to see them interacting with my little daughter, to hear them remark how much she reminds them of me at her age. It was a precious time.
Yesterday was the feast of St. Monica, my patron and one of Anne's namesakes, and today is the feast of St. Augustine. I've been thinking about their lives, specifically how much can be accomplished when we persist in prayer, and brainstorming how I can make it more of a habit in our daily life. Anne has started to participate when we pray, making the sign of the cross, folding her hands and scrunching her eyes closed, saying "Amen." (She actually said "Amen" several times during the wedding ceremony, including just after the bride said her vows. She gets it.) She is so enthusiastic and proud of herself, and I just want to keep her going. When we were growing up, we knew that prayer was an ongoing conversation with a God who wanted to know what was in our hearts, no matter how silly or insignificant it seemed. I want Anne to know that, too, as soon as possible.
We were flying solo this week, as we so often do in this insanely busy season of my husband's career. We did all the things you want to do in Michigan in the summer: picked blueberries, swam in lakes, watched the sunset, ate ice cream and pie, sweet corn and tomatoes. I had the rare chance to spend some quality one-on-one time with my sister's soon-to-be husband, as we sat belly-up to the bar where she works, sipping PBR and laughing. He is a keeper. Thank you, God!
We are squeezing the last drops from this summer, paying no attention to the purple stains on our fingers and tongues (and some of our shirts).
Blueberry Cobbler
3 cups fresh blueberries
1 tablespoon cornstarch
1/3 cup granulated sugar
zest of one small lemon
2/3 cup all purpose flour
2/3 cup rye flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/3 cup granulated sugar
1 egg
1/2 cup buttermilk
3 tablespoons melted butter
Preheat the oven to 425 degrees. In a baking dish (I used a deeper 10-inch covered dish, but you could use a wider, shallower pan if you make sure to keep your eye on it - cooking time would be shorter), gently toss together blueberries, cornstarch, sugar, and lemon zest. In a separate bowl, stir together flours, baking powder, salt, and sugar. Beat the egg slightly in another bowl or liquid measuring cup, and add the buttermilk and butter. Stir together, pour into the flour mixture, and stir until just combined. Drop in large spoonfuls on top of the blueberries, sprinkle with sugar, and bake 25-30 minutes, until berries are bubbling and top is golden.
Serve cobbler warm with vanilla ice cream.
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