By March, and the morels started appearing in the low places near the creek, earlier than usual, pushed up by a warm week followed by rain. I found the first cluster on a Tuesday morning and went back to the house to get Tommy.
He's two and a half now, still in the carrier on my chest, legs dangling, head swiveling to track anything that moves. I carried him into the trees and crouched down next to the first cluster and pointed and said "morel" slowly, and he looked at my finger, then at the mushrooms, then at my face, then back at the mushrooms. He said "mush" immediately, which is what he says for mushroom, and then said it again, and again, and again — I counted seventeen times before we moved to the next cluster. He was narrating. Cataloguing. The word was doing the same work his hands do when he touches things, claiming the world by naming it.
We gathered a small basket, enough for dinner. Back at the house I sautéed them in butter with a little thyme while Tommy sat on the kitchen floor with a wooden spoon and a pot lid, conducting something. When the morels were done I put a small piece on his tray — cool enough, no seasoning beyond butter — and he picked it up and smelled it first. That's new. He's started smelling food before he eats it, which I don't remember teaching him. He ate three pieces with absolute gravity and then looked at me as if to confirm something.
I wrote it into the guide that night. Not as a recipe but as a moment — the way a child learns a food is a kind of teaching that bypasses language and goes straight to the body. That's what the guide is trying to capture. That's what thirty years of this work has taught me: the body knows things before the mind gets there, and the kitchen is where you learn to listen.
That evening, after the morels were eaten and Tommy was asleep, I kept thinking about what it means to cook something the land handed you — the way the whole meal becomes a kind of receipt for a moment that won’t repeat. Cherries come the same way: briefly, insistently, and always a little faster than you’re ready for. This cherry crumble is what I make when I want that same quality of attention in the kitchen — fruit that asks nothing complicated of you, just that you show up while it’s here. It’s the dessert I’d have made that night if the season had been different, and it carries the same lesson: receive what’s offered, and don’t overthink it.
Cherry Crumble
Prep Time: 15 min | Cook Time: 40 min | Total Time: 55 min | Servings: 6
Ingredients
- 4 cups fresh or frozen sweet cherries, pitted
- 2 tablespoons granulated sugar
- 1 tablespoon cornstarch
- 1 teaspoon vanilla extract
- 1 tablespoon lemon juice
- 3/4 cup rolled oats
- 1/2 cup all-purpose flour
- 1/3 cup packed brown sugar
- 1/4 teaspoon cinnamon
- 1/4 teaspoon salt
- 5 tablespoons cold unsalted butter, cut into small pieces
Instructions
- Preheat. Heat the oven to 350°F (175°C). Lightly butter a 9-inch baking dish or equivalent.
- Prepare the filling. In a large bowl, toss the pitted cherries with the granulated sugar, cornstarch, vanilla extract, and lemon juice until evenly coated. Pour into the prepared baking dish and spread into an even layer.
- Make the crumble topping. In a separate bowl, combine the rolled oats, flour, brown sugar, cinnamon, and salt. Add the cold butter pieces and work them in with your fingertips until the mixture holds together in rough, pea-sized clumps.
- Assemble. Scatter the crumble topping evenly over the cherry filling, covering most of the surface without pressing it down.
- Bake. Bake for 38–42 minutes, until the topping is golden and the cherry filling is bubbling around the edges. If the topping browns too quickly, loosely tent with foil for the last 10 minutes.
- Rest and serve. Allow the crumble to cool for at least 10 minutes before serving so the filling can set slightly. Serve warm, plain or with a scoop of vanilla ice cream or a spoonful of plain yogurt.
Nutrition (per serving)
Calories: 285 | Protein: 3g | Fat: 10g | Carbs: 47g | Fiber: 3g | Sodium: 105mg