Blackberry Crisp Crumble

May, and Mother's Day arrives with the particular grace that the second Mother's Day without Mama brings — not the sharp grief of the first but the settled sadness of the second, the sadness that has found its place in the body and that lives there now like a tenant who pays rent on time and does not make noise but who is always there, behind the door, part of the household.

James gave me a framed photograph of Mama — a photograph I had not seen, taken by Ruth during one of Mama's good days, Mama in the kitchen, humming, her hands on the counter, her face peaceful. Ruth had kept the photograph. Ruth gave it to James. James framed it and gave it to me. The photograph is the best Mother's Day gift I have ever received, because the photograph is Mama, humming, in the kitchen, peaceful — the Mama I want to remember, the Mama the disease tried to erase, the Mama who is preserved in this photograph the way she is preserved in the cookbook: permanently, beautifully, in the moment before the moment was lost.

Carrie called from Fukuoka. She said, "Happy Mother's Day, Mom. I made shrimp and grits for my students." The making of shrimp and grits in Japan, for Japanese teenagers, on Mother's Day, was the gift — the gift of a daughter who carries the kitchen across the Pacific and who feeds people with the food her mother taught her, and the teaching is the mothering, and the mothering is the Mother's Day.

I made brunch for Robert and me — shrimp and grits, biscuits, fruit. The brunch for two. The two is the contentment. And the contentment is the gift I give myself: the permission to be content with what remains.

I always set fruit on the brunch table — something bright beside the biscuits — but this year, with the photograph of Mama on the counter where I could see her, I wanted the fruit warm and sweet and a little undone, the way contentment feels when you stop fighting it. A blackberry crisp crumble was the thing: simple enough that it didn’t ask much of me, comforting enough that it gave something back, and sweet with just enough tartness to remind you that the good things in life always hold a little of both. Carrie was feeding people in Fukuoka; I was feeding Robert and me — and this was the dessert that closed that small, sufficient brunch with exactly the grace the day deserved.

Prep Time: 15 minutes | Cook Time: 40 minutes | Total Time: 55 minutes | Servings: 6

Ingredients

Blackberry Filling
4 cups fresh blackberries (or frozen, thawed and drained)
3 tablespoons granulated sugar
1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice
1 tablespoon cornstarch
Crumble Topping
1 cup old-fashioned rolled oats
1/2 cup all-purpose flour
1/2 cup packed light brown sugar
1/4 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon fine salt
6 tablespoons cold unsalted butter, cut into small cubes

Instructions

Preheat — and prepare your dish. Heat oven to 350°F (175°C). Lightly butter an 8x8-inch baking dish and set it aside.
Make the filling. In a large bowl, gently toss the blackberries with the granulated sugar, lemon juice, and cornstarch until the berries are evenly coated. Pour the mixture into the prepared baking dish and spread into an even layer.
Make the crumble topping. In a separate bowl, whisk together the oats, flour, brown sugar, cinnamon, and salt. Add the cold butter cubes and work them into the dry ingredients with your fingertips or a pastry cutter until the mixture comes together in coarse, shaggy clumps — some larger, some small. Do not overwork it.
Assemble and bake. Scatter the crumble topping evenly over the blackberry filling. Bake for 35 to 40 minutes, until the topping is deeply golden and the berry filling is bubbling at the edges.
Rest before serving. Let the crisp rest for at least 10 minutes before scooping. Serve warm, plain or with a scoop of vanilla ice cream or a dollop of softly whipped cream.

Nutrition (per serving)

Blackberry Crisp Crumble — The Sweetness of Staying