How To Appreciate Cobbler Crust

This was to be a prelude on the importance and appreciation of good, crusty Southern style biscuits, and more tips on how to make them. This 'prelude' became so lengthy, it turned into a 'story' in its own right. Read on.

Times were pretty tough for a lot of we children born just before "The Big War' (WW2), ended. The saving grace of it all was, we didn't realize how tough the times really were. Heck, we thought it was normal. We got one pair of shoes a year. That was when school started in the Fall. What's tough about going barefoot all Summer? We all did it and loved it. Well, maybe not the inevitable stone bruises one was bound to get. Boy, did they hurt! Oh yes, back then, we were referred to as 'children', not kids. Kids were and still are, baby goats.

The times weren't always tough. There were periods when things ran pretty smoothly. No strikes, no rationing, no short time or lay offs at the mill, no major illnesses in the family. It was during these times, I actually got a weekly allowance! Man, that buffalo nickle looked awful nice when handed to me on payday. Occasionally, I would earn a nickle by running an errand for a neighbor. One sweet neighbor lady always advised me to buy ice cream and not candy with my nickel. Others, when handing me the nickle, would grin sheepishly and say "Don't spend it all in one place".

There was no such thing as 'store bought' desserts in our home. Quite frankly, we couldn't afford them. If we could have afforded them, I seriously doubt they would have been preferred over Mama's homemade cakes, pies and cobblers.

I have picked blackberries and sold them for 50 cents a gallon. Today's price at one 'pick your own' blackberry farm: $15.00 a gallon. A price cannot be put on the ones I brought home. Yes, the ones Mama lovingly turned into the best blackberry cobbler you ever tasted.

Mama's cobblers were delicious, not fancy. No lattice crust here, too time consuming for a Mother of nine. A solid layer of dough was placed on top. The point of a sharp knife was used to make several slits in this layer of dough. Just before putting the cobbler in the oven, the top was sprinkled with sugar and dotted generously with real country butter.

Here's where things really get good, people.

Earlier, I had gone to the wood pile, gathered and brought in an armload of wood, and built a fire in Mama's Red Mountain wood range. Yep, those delicious cobblers were baked in the oven of a wood stove.

Electric stove? We didn't have one. No one I knew had one. We had one electrical cord hanging from the ceiling of each room. A fitting for a light bulb was attached to each. That was our complete electrical wiring. When we listened to The Grand Ole Opry on Saturday night, we had to run a 'drop cord' from that vacuum tube radio to an adapter on the light cord hanging from the ceiling.

(Pardon me for rambling. Back to the good stuff).

Mama was always so busy with two or three things at once. Many times she would have to leave the cooking to feed a baby or such. At these times she would call to me. I can hear her, now. "Doug, stir the beans. Doug, turn the bread. Doug, see if that cobbler's about done".

Checking to see if the cobbler was almost done was about as rewarding as eating a big dish of it topped with homemade vanilla ice cream. Opening that oven door and getting a big whiff of that aroma was pure heaven. And the eye appeal was just as rewarding.

That once flat crust had now risen to glorious heights. Not evenly though, it had lots of hills and valleys. The hills were a mouthwatering golden brown, brought about by the heat of a wood stove and the melting and lightly toasting of that smattering of butter. And the sprinkling of sugar was now a thin, lacy candied glaze.

The valleys. Oh, the valleys. The blackberry juice, enriched with lots of sugar, had reached the simmering point within the cobbler. It had risen up to the slits in the crust. As it made its way through the slits and continued its journey, bubbling and seeking its own level, it combined with some of the butter and sugar glaze.

By the time this juice/sugar/ butter mixture reached its final destination, it had coalesced into a sticky, almost chewy confection, and its destination was just about everywhere atop the cobbler.

Take a big serving spoon, cut into the center of the cobbler. You'll withdraw lots of delicious blackberries, lots of delicious juice and crust. Nothing could be better. Right? Not necessarily.

Go over to a corner of the cobbler and dip your spoon in there. That's right. You'll get some berries and some juice, but mostly crust. That beautiful, crisp, golden brown crust drizzled with sticky, caramelized juice, sugar and butter. Say what?

No, you haven't died. You're just experiencing a bit of Heaven On Earth.

Anybody with any sense knows the best part of a cobbler is the crust.

I'll save the biscuit making tips for another submission. In the meantime, just remember, If properly made, the crust of a Southern Style biscuit will be almost as delicious as that of a blackberry cobbler, especially when served piping hot with butter and home made blackberry jam or jelly.

Pictured above is 'Mama' as she appeared during the years she was making those delicious cobblers. To her right stands an elderly neighbor we all cherished and affectionately called 'Granny'. The child is my youngest sister, Charlotte.