Blackbird Tart
My grandmother spent the past week in the hospital due to a diagnosis of pneumonia. Things didn’t look good – they looked bad, in fact – and so all of her children flew and drove in from their very separate corners of the country. Within 24 hours from her hospitalization, my entire family was a unit again – even the grandchildren and greats were there. We held vigil in the ICU waiting room, alternating between sad smiles, heavy tears and weighted sighs. I held my cousin Brian on my lap, my chin resting on his right shoulder as he played with a rabbit-shaped rubber bracelet on his right hand. Every once in a while, I would hug him tighter and he’d press his back into my arms. My aunt Joyce stood with her hands shoved into her pockets, swallowing a lump in her throat. My aunt Trudy gave me a small smile as she rubbed her daughter, Liza’s, back. We were all frightened and, in a room full of people, wouldn’t you know it, very alone with our thoughts.
Maybe miracles do happen, or maybe we all just prayed hard enough, because Grandma was moved from ICU to a regular hospital room, and then, today, back to my parents’ house.
A smattering of family was still around when she shuffled back into her favorite chair to catch the Yankees game: my aunts Barbara and Pat, my uncle Dennis, my sister. We held a very different kind of pow-wow from the week before as we cooked dinner. We sipped gin and tonics, wine and beer and teased each other in the way that families so often do (and that my family does so very well).
When we finally sat down to burgers, salt potatoes (low sodium variety, we joked, as we’d prepared some sans-salt for my Grandmother) I noticed Pat holding her hand out to me. “Salt? Pepper? What do you want?” I asked.
“Your hand,” she said with a smile.
“Oh!” I blushed and gave it to her. We said Grace, and then we toasted each other, making certain to clink every glass.
As we ate, my aunts, uncle and father told stories of their childhood. I love when they do this. Their eyes light up and they all get very giggly (perhaps it’s the wine), and the way my father laughs, slapping his knee, just melts my little-girl heart.
“Do you remember the blackbird?” Dennis asked as we passed around the platters.
I cut into a bit of lettuce and looked at him inquisitively.
“Details, Dennis. Details,” Barbara implored.
“Well Vincent once brought a dead blackbird in from outside and put it in a bowl. He was going to eat it!”
“WHAT?” I shrieked. “No way.”
“I swear,” Dennis said. “And mom got mad because it was a new bowl.”
We all turned to the head of the table to look at Grandma. She just rolled her eyes back in the way she always does, moving her entire head with her pupils.
“Well I don’t remember that,” Barbara said. “It must have happened before I arrived. I was adopted, you know.”
Pat giggled and my father laughed. I felt a pulse in my heart, powered by each corner of the room. “Gross,” I said. “Did he cook it first?”
“No, no!” my mother said, jumping in on the action to recite a nursery rhyme. “He thought it was supposed to be ‘four-and-twenty-blackbirds … baked in a pie.’”
We all shuddered and laughed some more.
Later in the evening, I decided to get to the bottom of things. I sent Vincent a text message: Do you remember ever eating a blackbird?
He sent one back: That sounds like something Dennis would do.
Ah-ha! I squealed and showed the telephone screen to everyone. We were standing around my Grandma’s bed, saying goodnight. As we laughed, I looked at everyone’s face. They all wore the same expression – relief, mixed with fatigue. We weren’t laughing because the thought of eating a blackbird was particularly funny, but because it felt so good to have a reason, a right to laugh. I let my eyes wander to the bed where Grandma sat, her shoulders slightly hunched. She looked tired too, but even from across the room, I could sense her heart getting stronger, filling up with love.
Blackbird Tart (adapted from two recipes from Gourmet and Bon Appétit)
This pie contains no fowl, but it is delicious nonetheless, and very good for a family dinner.
You may wish to make a pie crust from scratch for this recipe. I prefer no-fuss tart doughs, myself, so when pies are required of me, I typically purchase them from the store. That might be a naughty thing to admit, but there it is.
Anyway, you’ll need a bottom crust, and if you wish to use a traditional pie one, you’re on your own. If you choose to make a tart, then follow my advice and mix one stick of unsalted butter with 1/3 cup of granualted sugar, a pinch of kosher salt, 1/4 teaspoon vanilla extract, 1/4 teaspoon lemon extract and 1 1/4 cup of all-purpose flour. Stir with a rubber spatula until combined, then press into a tart pan with a removable bottom. Press the dough down evenly, covering both the bottom and sides of the pan. Using a small off-set spatula, scrape at the top of the crimped edges, cutting off the dough to an attractive, neat edge. Dock the dough with a fork and bake at 375 degrees for a little over 15 minutes.
Remove the shell from the oven, but keep it in the pan. Let it cool on a rack while you toss together 5 cups blackberries, 1 cup granulated sugar, 1/4 cup cornstarch, 2 tablespoons melted unsalted butter, 2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice, 2 tablespoons fresh orange juice and 2 teaspoons ground cinnamon. Pour gently into the tart shell and bake until berry filling is bubbling-hot and melty, about 30 minutes.
Let cool slightly then serve, heaped with ice cream, whipped cream and, if you wish, blackbirds.
this made me cry. in a good way.