Blueberry Pie

It's blueberry season - time for pie! And I made one this afternoon, which turned out just perfectly and which we enjoyed after dinner. Mark had to ask, though - "Can you make a blueberry pie without thinking of your father?"

No, of course not. My father was ALL about blueberry pie.

In Southeast Alaska there are wild blueberries galore. And of course my parents' visits to us there coincided with berry season. (Had to.) Blueberry bushes thrive in clearcuts - one of the first things to come back after logging. And the berries are small and tart and far more tasty than the commercial berries you can get in the lower 48. They make wonderful pies. (The secret to a great blueberry pie? A little salt, a little lemon juice and some cinnamon.)

My dad loved them.

He had to work to get them though. Sacrificed a day of fishing. Fought off bears. Stained his fingers and clothes. (Teeth too, but that was later and didn't involve work exactly.) Climbing through an old clearcut to get to the best, most productive bushes is no easy task.

Alaskan berries - wild berries - are very wormy. He was philosophical about this though, as he was about most things. "Could always use a little more protein in the diet" he'd say, thoughtfully peering into his berry bucket as hundreds of tiny worms crawled up the sides. Undaunted, he was. (We soaked them in salt water to get the worms out - so it wasn't like we ate TOO many of them, but I'm sure a pie did, indeed, involve some extra protein.)

He was always happy to have a piece of leftover pie for breakfast too - "Fresh fruit for breakfast. Very nutritious! Good way to start the day!!"

My mother will be embarrassed when I say this, but he would even lick the plate clean. Any cook would appreciate such high praise. I did.

And I wish I could share this pie with him.