When my sons were young blackberries were a dietary staple at our house. Our farm had many berry patches in the overgrown pastures, and I canned berries for winter cobblers and made dozens of jars of jam. During the July blackberry season our fingernails and fingertips were stained an odd gray color that did not come out even if we scrubbed with bleach water. Every berry-picking trip was followed by a careful body search for ticks and other hitchhikers from the woods. Scratches covered our arms. But for us the berries were worth the pains and the stains.

I remember a summer when temperatures reached record highs every day in July. I did not want to pick berries that year-it was too hot, and if I picked them I had to deal with the heat from the stove. My two youngest sons didn't care about heat, however-they wanted blackberry cobbler. Cobbler from fresh berries was a treat only to be had in July when the berries were in season. I agreed that if they picked the berries, I would bake the cobbler. I didn't think they'd last five minutes in the heat, but when the boys returned with full buckets a half hour later, I had to keep my end of the bargain, and that night we enjoyed fresh berry cobbler. Worth the heat? Definitely.

We still pick and can blackberries every summer, but that hot July day when the boys braved the heat for cobbler remains a vivid memory for me. Maybe it's because the berries that were once a valued treat are often left on the vines now, evidently not worth the time and trouble to harvest. Or maybe it's because that day captures what our life was like back then, with all its hardships and richness. Whatever the reason, every time I pass a patch of ripening blackberries I remember those two little boys handing me their buckets of berries with beaming, sweaty faces.

My mother, who was a "pinch of this, smidge of that" kind of cook, gave me this recipe.