I’ve known Chelsie for 20(!) years, and counting. From those early encounters at our all-female dormitory at university, our friendship has gone through some pretty key milestones – first apartments, first mortgages, engagements, weddings, kids. She was then, and still is, one of the most creative persons you’d ever encounter. A talented soul who can turn a decades old thrift store artwork a contemporary piece, or make the most perfectly plaited (and perfectly tasting) challah bread ring you’d ever see come from a home kitchen. When she reached out about this piece, I knew to expect something with unique sentiment and heart. Both of which I know you’ll see.

Chelsie’s piece paints a picture of idyllic summers, complete with family traditions, water sports, and a touch of daring adventure. The ones that stay with you and come back in comforting memories when you least expect it – for example, at a stall by the side of the highway.

This is a memory of grandparents, blueberries, and bears.

As a kid growing up in Northern Ontario, Canada,  I would usually spend a week or two at my grandparents place each summer. It took about three hours by car to reach the home of my maternal grandparents, but it was often the highlight of those two months off school.

My grandpa Jack was a lean man, which surprised me considering he could eat forever, especially peanuts. A jar of them could always be found beside his armchair in the TV room. While grandpa Jack didn’t cook, apart from a smear of peanut butter on toast, he told stories of working in trainyards, painting trains and heating his lunch, typically a can of beans, in the radiator by the car engine. (Apparently, this is a common canned meal hack, as my father described doing the same as a forest ranger.) The lack of formal culinary experience paired well with my grandma Lulu, who was an enthusiastic cook, and kept a well-stocked kitchen of snacks. Even though grandma Lulu was quite health conscious, every now and then she would indulge me with mini ice-cream cones treats, filled with the softest pastel coloured marshmallow and sprinkled with sugar, and always sesame snaps.  I still think of her when I see those snaps today, in their distinctive blue and red packaging. However, to know grandma Lulu was to know that the kitchen was very much her domain, and we left her to her own devices while she would make us comforting, and nourishing meals.

Whenever we took the boat out on the lake, she would generously prepare big picnics which always included a large pot of baked beans. Her food kept us fuelled as grandpa Jack would anchor down at our favourite beach, and we’d just spend the full day swimming and climbing back onto the boat to eat.

My grandparents house backed onto a forest, where they had a large gazebo that stood on stilts because there was a big hill that dropped off where the backyard ended. There were stairs down the hill and a large, wooded area where we would pick fiddleheads in the spring. Behind this fielded area of trees and marsh there were mountains, and this is where my grandpa Jack would take me wild blueberry picking every summer visit. We would take our 4-litre fruit baskets, climb the mountains and pick this intensely flavoured fruit, always on the lookout for bears. Yes, bears. Grandpa Jack had run into them every so often on his bike by the mountain, or while blueberry picking by himself, so he was always prepared with a whistle and bear spray. (Thankfully however, we never encountered one.)

 Picking wild blueberries is laborious. Wild blueberries are quite a bit smaller than their domestic counterparts that I pick with my own children nowadays. They are small bushes close to the ground, often grouped together. The informal, but still essential rules for blueberry picking were clearly laid out by my grandma who would always remind us to only pick the ripe berries and pick clean. This meant no small branches, no leaves, no stems. It would take an hour or two to fill up our baskets.

When we would get back to the house, my grandmother would always make a humble, but oh so good, blueberry cake. Her unique touch was sprinkling the blueberries on the top of the cake to create squares for each serving, something I haven’t seen anyone else come up with. Any leftover berries would be used for breakfast, served in a bowl with milk, sprinkled with a bit of sugar. In the months of late July and August, there would always be at least one basket of blueberries on the counter, a tea towel draped over it.

Both of my grandparents passed away over the last two years and going blueberry picking with my kids always brings back memories of those summers visiting them. Recently we were driving back up in Northern Ontario, and there was a car at the side of the road selling those intensely indigo berries. The price had certainly risen quite a bit, but easy to understand considering the arduous effort that goes into to picking these nearly jewel flavoured morsels. Bear concerns, alone.

Grandma Lulu’s Blueberry Cake

Ingredients

• 2 cups flour

• 2 1/2 tsp baking powder

• 1/4 tsp salt

• 1/3 cup shortening

• 1 cup of sugar

• 1 tsp vanilla

• 1 egg

• 2/3 cup of milk

• 2 to 3 cups of blueberries (picked yourself overshadowed by Canadian mountains, or store-bought is fine)

• Zest of 1 lemon

Method

• In a large bowl, combine the flour, baking powder, and salt and set aside.

• In a medium bowl or standing mixer, cream together the shortening, vanilla, egg and ¾ cup of the sugar. Once combined, alternately add the flour and milk to the now pale creamed mix.

• Place the blueberries in a rectangular dish, with the remaining sugar and the grated lemon zest. Ceremoniously spoon the mixture on to the blueberries.

• Bake at 350 degrees Celsius for 40-45 min. Let cool, and serve each portion with a scoop of vanilla ice cream.