Tag: baking

The thing about huckleberries

August 28th, 2024

A while back, I thought about embarking on a “50 States of Pie” journey. I was going to bake a pie for each of the fifty states (that’s pretty clear from the name). I began my research and started assigning a pie to each state. I wanted to know where I was going with this before I got myself in over my head. If you’ve known me long enough, just think back to when I spent two years working on #traveltastes

Somewhere along the way, I came across huckleberry pie. I knew that I would have to do huckleberry pie for Montana. There wasn’t any other option. But I lived in Vermont.

Huckleberries don’t grow in Vermont.

In fact, they don’t grow anywhere other than where they want to grow.

Unlike many other fruits, huckleberries have yet to be domesticated. The only way to get huckleberries is to go out and pick them yourself…or pay $60 per pound (before shipping costs).

There’s something special about a plant that refuses to follow the rules we want to assign to them. They will grow where they see fit and, even if you offer them the perfect place, they would rather be wild, freely roaming the woods.

Over the past few weeks – freely roaming the woods from Montana to Idaho to Washington – I’ve come across patches of huckleberries. The first time, I scrambled to find a way to collect them and mainly just ate them. It reminded me of the time I came across the perfect fiddlehead ferns while I was running a trail. I picked just enough for dinner and carried them out of the trail rolled up in the edge of my shirt. Exactly how I did when I collected rocks as a six year old.

Since that first time, I’ve been a little bit more prepared. And I’ve learned how to watch for them. Unlike blackberries or blueberries, huckleberries don’t announce themselves. They thrive in a bit of shade, tucked under their leaves. And they don’t all look exactly the same. Some are a dusty blue, while others are a deep purple black. They come from different bushes, so they present themselves in unique ways.

As I hiked the trail, I managed to collect about a cup of huckleberries. There was something magical about turning a corner and seeing bushes laden with berries…and then turning another corner to find the tiniest berries hidden beneath wide, stretching leaves. I tucked my half-full baggie (I only took what I would use) into the very top of my pack so that they wouldn’t get squished. And with a slew of huckleberries, there was only one way to respond.
Makes sense

November 8th, 2019

There are things in life that just make sense for some people. Tossing a ball into a basket. Crunching numbers in columns. Motivating people. Making music. Scaling rock walls. Getting a rowdy bunch of students to settle down.

And you can tell when someone is doing “their thing.” There is a sense of ease and grace about them…and they just seem to exist in this perfect rhythm. And it’s like this task, whatever it is, makes them feel most at home. It makes sense.

I bake with kids.

It’s weird and doesn’t always go smoothly. Over the past few years, I’ve lost eggs to floors and messed up recipes and guided students to bake things that they wound up hating. But that doesn’t change it for me. Given a choice, I will still bake with kids over just about anything else.

Translating that to the outdoors has been challenging. I wasn’t even sure I should try…fire scares me. But I couldn’t just walk away from this opportunity to do the thing that I love most because I was scared.

Each time I taught outdoor cooking, I got a little bolder. I started by using a pre-made mix for johnny cakes. From there, I did some research and Frankenstein-ed a “from scratch” recipe. And with every group, we got better at building and tending our fire.

Last week, we tried something completely new – pumpkin scones. I tweaked a “traditional” recipe to make it a little more outdoor-friendly. This recipe let us have conversations about kitchen chemistry and really get our hands into the food that we were preparing. And kids got to smell pumpkin (yuck!).

And I was entirely in my element. Over the past couple of months, there have been plenty of moments where I have felt joy and enthusiasm and even small tidbits of pride in the work. But it’s all been so foreign and new that it rarely feels “comfortable.”

Cooking scones over an open fire on a beach…it makes sense.
The Maine Thing

October 16th, 2019

About last weekend…there was hiking and there was Maine.

I hiked on Saturday and Monday, with Maine filling the space in between. When you roll into a small town and your friends invite you to meet them at a brewery and then join them for a movie on permaculture, you know you’re in for a good time.

Saturday night I crashed in my favorite yurt. I slept “late” and savored the gentle morning light that streamed into the yurt.

Such a change from cabin life! A few weeks ago, when the temperatures dropped, we had to close up the windows to our cabin. The only natural light we have comes from the small window on the door. Some days, it feels like living in a cave.

The yurt was a pleasant change.

And the cozy, restful night left me prepared for the day’s adventures!

There was a cranberry farm.

Yes. I picked cranberries. And cranberries and cranberries. As we walked out to the field, another gentleman who was there with his wife asked if I had ever done this before.

“I’m from Arkansas. This isn’t really something we have there.”

And with that, we began picking. I filled a small jack-o-lantern bucket with cranberries. The official haul was three-pounds of cranberries. Now…what to do with all of those cranberries?

We started with cranberry-apple-pear hand pies. (And some savory pies with a roasty tomato sauce, buttercup squash, and rosemary…no cranberries.)

It was in part of an early celebration of “World Community Bake Day” (officially, it’s today – the 16th). The wood-fired stone oven was fired up and everything went it. Pizza. Vegetables. Naan. Bread. Hand pies. I was in my happy place.

I enjoyed one of the hand pies alongside a glass of freshly pressed cider. Because what else do you do on a brisk Sunday evening in Maine next to a wood fire oven??
Yurts & Hand Pies

August 19th, 2019

I spent this past weekend staying in a yurt in Norway, Maine. And hiking. And throwing pies into wood-fire ovens.

Last month, at the Kneading Conference, I met a few people who were amused by my life choices. Some people looked at me with concern and trepidation. Some people just laughed and made jokes about how I lived in my car. Some people expressed authentic support. And then some invited me to come visit.

But, let me back up…to my arrival in Norway.

I jumped into the line prepping pizza for a community garden’s weekly pizza night. I met people who work and volunteer in the garden. We swapped adventure and experience stories. And I was invited to join in arts activity with youth the next day.

Somewhere in the midst of the community garden pizza party, my friend mentioned that they were planning a pizza night at home for Sunday. Firing up their oven…and I was invited to join…and throw some pies in the mix.

WOOD FIRED HAND PIES?!? Basically a dream come true.

So, Saturday consisted of foggy hiking…arts-ing…story-swapping…pie dough making (in a yurt). And then listening to thunder and watching lightning while falling asleep in a yurt.

On Sunday, I tackled one of my bigger trails and was ready to do more when I finished. “More” meant pie. Rolling, filling, pricking…that part was easy. Even tossing in random pizza toppings to make some savory hand pies (some of which we ate for breakfast topped with fried eggs). The whole day was a series of things that I knew and loved and enjoyed.

But then there was the fire.

How hot does it need to be?

How long do they bake?

Will they slide off the peel?

Flame or no flame?

How should I know??

Baking pie with wood fire was a completely new experience. So, I didn’t know…exactly. But I knew the proper cooking temp and approximate time. And I knew how dough reacts when it’s first exposed to heat. And I knew what happened when you put a loaded pizza crust in a wood fire oven.

Applying prior knowledge to this new situation (Vygotsky & accommodation), we were able to successfully bake some beautiful hand pies in a wood fire oven. And only one pie almost got stuck to the peel.
What doesn’t belong

August 17th, 2019
I have used Couchsurfing for years. Since college. Time and time again, I have found it to be an effective way to travel. It’s allowed me to develop some sweet connect with people, learn local secrets, and fill otherwise quiet evenings. Every time I set out to find a place to stay using the website, I ask several questions:
- Does this host have good reviews?
- Does this host have plenty of pictures?
- Is this host’s profile complete?
- Does this host include a decent description of the home/couch/etc?
The website, couchsurfing.com, has their own verification process that can “increase” the security of various stays. I don’t pay much attention to that since I’ve spent so much time figuring out my own way to read people. But this time…I could have done better.

Everything was great! It really and truly was a good experience – a blueberry farmer let me hijack his kitchen to make three blueberry pies and a pile of blueberries & cream hand pies for the crew of pickers he hired for harvest season. I met some folks from Arkansas, Tennessee and even Missouri (the town where I went to college!). Great people. Interesting conversations. I took off during the day to hike and spent the afternoon baking/reading.

With a plan to get up at 5 am to shower and head back down to Portland, I said “Good night” and “Thanks” and crashed pretty early. In my space downstairs.

My host was still awake…not quite ready to head to the loft upstairs. (aka – His Bed)

About fifteen minutes later, I think I hear him talking to one of the pickers…”You’re more than welcome to come upstairs…Mary Elizabeth.”

He wasn’t talking to a picker.

He was inviting me – a relative stranger who gave NO indication that such an invitation would be welcomed – to his bedroom.

It would be easy to skim past this interaction…completely ignore it and just tell you all about that time I made a bunch of blueberry pies and watched the sun set over a blueberry farm.

But this isn’t that simple. Or sweet.

It’s a narrative on the state of the world where I rack my brain trying to figure out what I did wrong…how I led him on…what I should have done differently…and then I tell myself that I’m overreacting to a simple invitation.

But I don’t think I overreacted. I’m still a little salty. Baking for people…traveling solo…having strangely deep conversations with relative strangers. Those are a normal part of my life.

Being invited into bed with a stranger.

That’s the thing that doesn’t belong.
One Month Later

August 8th, 2019

These are a few of my favorite (Nashville) things…

On July 8th, with EVERYTHING piled in my car, I went to breakfast with my roommate (breakfast tacos). I drove back through town to pick up coffee from my favorite place and cookies from my favorite place and make a deposit at the bank. Somewhere along the way, I realized that my bike rack was not going to do. So I abandoned the bike back at “my old” apartment.

After what seemed like an eternity, I finally left Nashville.

To put it mildly, the emotions were mixed.

I was excited for a new adventure and eager to not be in Nashville. But at the same time, Nashville has all of the best people…the ones who put up with my occasionally ornery nature, the ones who understand how much coffee I need to function, and the ones who know when to leave me alone (or not).

And…I didn’t really have a plan. And I like plans.

Looking back on the past month of “not having a plan,” I don’t think I could have planned things any better if I tried! All along the way, new opportunities have presented themselves…because I’ve been open to them!

When I set out on this adventure, that was my goal – be open to opportunities. Because of this, I’ve met new people and gone to new places and learned how to eat a fresh lobster! I hiked in four new states and I made a pie with blueberries that I picked and I dove into a lake after practically bathing in flour for several days (Kneading Conference…it’s what we did). I discovered a beach full of snails (SNAILS!) and ate a cannoli sitting on a bench in Boston and I survived a slightly questionable bite (still not sure what that was all about). I did yoga in a park and I’ve gone days and days without showering.

I have a vague notion of where I’ll be and what I’ll be doing “next”…but from what I’ve learned so far, less planning is better.
A Pie-ku

August 4th, 2019
She grew the rhubarb
I picked fresh wild blueberries
Then I made a pie
M.E. Latch

At the Kneading Conference, I met someone named Mary Elizabeth (RIGHT??). She lived on a small island not too far from Acadia. She invited me to come visit.

A normal person would probably not follow through with this. But I’ve forgotten what “normal” is. So, I maneuvered a ferry system that only mildly stressed me out (see last post) and made it to the island. As we entered her home, she pointed out the rhubarb on the kitchen table and mentioned that she had picked it from her garden.

I know two things about rhubarb: (1) it doesn’t really grow down south and (b) it belongs in pies. So naturally, I mention this to her. She responds that they used all of the strawberries. I shrug my shoulders, scratch my head…and then I ask about the blueberries.

If you wander around the island enough, you will find berries upon berries upon berries. I woke up the next morning and made dough so that it would have time to chill. Then, I went on a berry hunt. Eventually (I was concerned about invading private property…but no one seemed to mind…and there were definitely enough berries for everyone), I found the right spot.

And it was SO right. The space between the road and the woods was covered in blueberries. I had to step gently. An older gentleman passed by and asked if I was making a pie. How did he know?!?

I slowly worked my way down the road – put a berry in the bucket, eat three, put a berry in the bucket, eat three…

The gentleman came back by and told me that there were more berries at the end of the road.

THE END?!? This road ends?!?

At the ocean. The road ended at the ocean. I sat and ate some of my berries before turning around to go make this pie.
(Please be assured – I did not eat the pie by myself. The pie was enjoyed as dessert following a dinner of freshly caught wild lobster…yes, I had to be instructed in the proper method to eat the lobster.)