Blueberry Cobbler

Yesterday I got a wild hair and decided to clean out my car. For normal people, this probably isn’t a big deal. It’s probably a simple task that takes just a few minutes of tidying and picking up and then it’s done. However I am not, nor have I ever been, a normal person and for me to clean out my car is a BIG DEAL. The front two seats, where the adults of the family sit, are relatively pristine. We tend to keep it nice and neat. But the back, well, the back is nothing short of a disaster. I don’t even go back there, honestly. It’s out of sight out of mind and that’s how it should stay. But in truth, it started to stink a little suspiciously and we were starting to run short on socks so I knew it was time.

Here is a comprehensive list of the things that we salvaged from my car:

• 1 Giant Pizza Shaped Pool Float
• 5 socks, only two of which matched
• 2 baseball hats
• 3 baseballs
• 1 pair of underwear
• 3 water bottles
• 2 empty cups (whether or not they were originally empty or the liquid just evaporated over time, we’ll never know)
• 2 books
• 1 package to a dollar store set of marbles (minus the marbles)
• about 1 dozen candy wrappers
• and 2 dozen lollipop sticks

It was almost mortifying. (I say almost because there were no witnesses and I’m totally fine embarrassing myself by telling the story after the fact.) Here’s the deal, though, I just can’t care about my car. There isn’t enough time in my day for me to go into the back seat, which I treat a little bit like a war zone with Gandalf standing at the border shouting “you shall not pass”each time I try (which is never), and clean it out. I just can’t care. I don’t get my car washed on the outside, neither. Rain is my car wash, and since it comes from God himself I’m pretty sure that that’s how it was meant to be anyway.

I will say that I wasn’t always like this. When I was pregnant with my oldest and we were in the market for a new car, I was very very specific about the car I wanted. I was bratty about it even, if I am being completely truthful. I had one specific car in mind. One specific color. I was convinced that this was the ultimate mom car, the car that would announce to the world that I had made it as a mother. It would, in fact, define me as a mother.

(silly pre-kids me really had no clue)

In order to get this car I had to make several promises to my very frugal and very practical husband, the most important of which being that I would take care of said automobile and clean it and treat it nicely. I promised. I wrote my name in blood. I got my mom car.

It was fine for a while. When my oldest was an infant all seemed to be going well and keeping it clean was easier than I expected. And then, well, I may or may not have scraped up the side of the car trying to back out of the garage. (in my defense, we had a tandem garage in California and it was a nightmare to back out of even on a good day.) And then, well, I may have scraped the other side too. And then my baby turned into a toddler. And Cheerios kept finding their way everywhere. And a milk explosion or two or three may have done some damage. 

The back seat took on a life of its own to the point that when we traded the car in for an even bigger mom car for our third child, we almost had to pay them instead of the other way around.

Clearly I was failing at this mom car thing, and failing hard.

Now that my kids are older and I’m (ahem) wiser, I realize how silly it is that I ever thought I would be defined as a mom by the car that I drive. I’ve been through three cars since my first venture into the sphere of mommmy-hood and I’ve treated each progressively worse, or so it seems. My husbands car is beautiful and clean and there’s even this ridiculous rule about not eating in it. I would argue that this rule is inhumane, but also, the main reason the kids never ever choose to ride with him unless they have to. Well played, husband of mine, well played.

But I just can’t even with my own car.

I’ve realized a thing or two in these 11 years that I’ve been responsible for humans. And I realize that I’m not defined as a mom by anything that I drive, wear, or own. No, silly pre-kids me, I’m defined as a mom because I’ve actually said the exact words “Stop peeing on your brother right now.” And by my public mom whisper yell that is perfected to the point that it is more terrifying than a yell. I’m defined as a mom because I have kissed approximately 8000 boo-boos and wiped 1,000 noses. I’m a mom because I can function on almost no sleep at all for days at a time and still manage to keep young people alive when doing it.  I’m a mom because I can make a peanut butter sandwich blindfolded with one hand tied behind my back while yelling at a child to “get down from there immediately,” and because I can and will drink coffee all day and transition to wine when coffee’s time is done. I’m a mom because I can manage a schedule that makes you break out in hives just looking at it and because I will fight for my children tooth and nail, despite being terrified of confrontation in my non-mom life.

These things make me a mom.

But most of all, I’m a mom because I love my children fiercely, imperfectly and wildly. I’m a mom because I don’t always get it right, but I always try. I’m a mom because I show up in their lives, all the time, even when I’m tired and grumpy and really don’t even want to. I show up.

And this is true of every single mom I know.

So, for at least today I have a clean-ish car. I have some kids that are pretty happy and content. I have this little blog that lets me entertain myself by writing stuff and taking fun pictures and cooking. And I have a God who loves me and has defined me forever and always as His child (John 1:12). And for that, I am one happy momma.

In honor of all of this, I’m sharing with you a recipe that is just, well, good. There’s nothing tying it to this story about my car. There’s no way I can make it make sense like I’m sometimes able to do. But I want to share it with you today, so I am. It is hands down my husbands favorite. I make it for him every year on his birthday, which was just this past weekend (Happy Birthday, Mr. BurntToast). It’s one of those classics that screams summer and picnics and fresh berries. It’s an old recipe that I don’t even know the origins, but I’ve tweaked it over the years to make it my own. I strongly recommend fresh berries but frozen will work in a pinch. Don’t skimp on the vanilla, it makes the filling. And be sure to serve it with vanilla ice cream too, otherwise it’s just not quite as summer or not quite as American as it should be.

Peace, love and mommyhood,

Meg

Blueberry Cobbler

March 17, 2020

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By: Meaghan Dawson

Ingredients

• 2 1/2 cup fresh blueberries
• 1 teaspoon vanilla
• 1 teaspoon lemon zest (about 1 lemon)
• juice of 1/2 lemon
• 1/2 cup sugar (I use coconut sugar but white works as well)
• 1/2 teaspoon flour
• pinch of salt
• 1 tablespoon melted butter
• 1 3/4 cup flour
• 4 teaspoons baking powder
• 1/3 cup sugar (use white here)
• 5 tablesoons cold butter cut into little pieces
• 1 cup milk
• 1 teaspoon vanilla
• 1 teaspoon sugar
• 1/4 teaspoon cinnamon

Directions

• Step 1 Spray an 8-inch baking dish with cooking spray and preheat the oven to 375.
• Step 2 Put blueberries in the dish and mix in vanilla, lemon juice and zest. Sprinkle in sugar, flour (the 1/2 teaspoon), salt,  and stir in melted butter. Set aside.
• Step 3 Stir together flour, baking powder, and sugar. Cut in chilled butter until it resembles a coarse sand (I use my hands). Make a well in the center and pour in milk and vanilla, stir until just wet. Cover and set aside for 10 minutes.
• Step 4 Spoon the batter over the blueberries. Mix cinnamon and sugar and sprinkle on top.
• Step 5 Bake for 30 minutes or until top is golden, checking at 25. Let cool but serve warm with ice cream on the side.
• Step 6 ENJOY!

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