Something about the sky this morning reminds me of Mom’s cobbler crusts. It’s certainly not the colors; nothing about the faint hints of pink and orange splotched into the blues and grays of the eastern sky does that. Her colors were shades of baked flour, hues of tans and browns and beiges in rippling blend across the top of the Jewel Tea baking dish with a bit of sugar sparkle. I think it’s that texture, that pattern of dips and rises, varying intensities of shade shaped by hand and laid across the top of apples or peaches.
As I walk out toward the barn, there’s a warming glow starting to show across the ridge that runs along the creek. A hint of heat coming, even to this cold morning.
There’s nothing in the feel of the air or the haloed shape of the moon settling toward the west above these miles of snow-covered fields and hills that brings her cooking to mind. Maybe something about the crunching sound of the frozen layer toward the barn has me thinking about that first serving, the way the crust crumbled around the edge of the spoon, the steaming smell of baked fruit.
I can see her hands, one holding the dish and the other lifting the spoon from bowl to plate, hear her voice, “Is that enough or do you want more?” even though she knew the answer would always have just one syllable.
In remembering those scents and sounds, flavors and textures, I know it’s more than the taste of hot cobbler I’m missing this morning. And yet, there’s something strangely comforting in the glow of the morning sky and the changing shapes of passing clouds, fading toward the east, toward that place that we all will meet someday.