Blackberry Goat Cheese Tart

I was on a flight from Minneapolis back to my hometown after a week long escape to the ocean. I've flown dozens of times over the last few years, heading from here to there over land and sea for various reasons. I love the ease of freedom of flight—the rush of the take-off and the release of landing. This particular flight, however, was different.

It started off conventionally; I boarded the small plane and, after we took flight, ordered an orange juice and settled into a good book. The sun had already set and the interior of the plane glowed softly from the irregular pattern of lights blushing overhead. Midway through the short flight, the captain quietly mentioned we may be running into a bit of turbulence, but not to worry as we would still be arriving on time.

The seatbelt sign lit up above me. The stewardess hurried up and down the aisle gathering the last of the empty cups and napkins before the commotion began, assuring everyone that everything was all right, but could we please raise our trays and place our seats upright just in case. I set my book aside and looked out the window, spotting a small light here or there on the prairie below.

The plane shook softly. After a short pause, it shook once more. The turbulence had begun. I had flown in light turbulence before and it was nothing to fear. However, unbeknownst to the passengers, we were flying headlong into a vicious lightning storm.

Staring out the small window, I noticed the lights on the plane's wings were being echoed sharply by the sky. It took a few moments to realize the lights were not reflections from the constant blink of the wing's lights, but were the result of lightning streaking across the sky. The plane's soft, infrequent agitations quickly took a turn for the worse. The plane suddenly shook violently. I was lifted into the air from the force and my seatbelt dug into lap.

The plane jarred sharply to the left and to the right. The lightning created strobe lights in the interior of the plane, alternatively bathing everyone in bright light and darkness. I braced myself against the seat in front of me, sparing a glance out to the other passengers. As the plane plummeted another few feet, the same thought appeared to collectively cross our faces.

Am I going to die?

The plane grew quiet, as if we had all held in our breaths and had nothing left to spare. A few rows in front of me, a mother was the only one to break the silence as she tried to comfort her young son (Do you remember that time when...). I listened to her weave a story, straining to hear her over the unsettling noise of the luggage moving around overhead. I noticed the older couple across from me also listening to her speak; I doubt she realized she was reassuring more than just her son with her words.

The plane became a wooden roller coaster, jerking the passengers back and forth and up and down. Though many chose to shut the screens to their windows to block out the lighting, I left mine open along with a few others for the same reason—to make sure the ground stayed where it should. Minutes stretched to hours and I grew nauseous, as my stomach flip flopped from the motion of the plane and the dark thoughts running through my head. The older woman across from me began to pray, folding her hands over the handle on the seat in front of her as she bowed her head.

Was I ready to die?

The ground swelled up quickly to the meet the plane and it took me a moment to realize we were landing instead of crashing. As we hit the runway at a frightening speed, my head flew forward, smashing into the seat in front of me. It was clear we were going too fast. The captain slammed on the brakes, but we skidded along the wet pavement like a car who had lost control on a sheet of ice. After a few long and terrifying moments, the plane jerked to a full stop.

We were safe.

Only after the seatbelt light flickered off, did the passengers let out the collective breath we had been holding. The woman beside me shakily told her husband she would be dead before she set foot on another plane again. My legs shook violently beneath me as I dared to stand. I met my mother in baggage and hugged her tightly, unable to express exactly what I had been through and neither wanting to. To this day, I have never been happier to set foot on solid ground.

The flight often crosses my mind. I later learned I had spent an hour and fifteen minutes being jostled back and forth, both from the plane and from my thoughts. It was the first time I had truly feared for my life—the first time I had anticipated the possibility of my death. While I am not afraid to fly the skies again, the unexpected flight will certainly stay with me, if only to remind me of the rush of gratitude and relief that comes with knowing I am safe.

This Blackberry Goat Cheese Tart borders the line between savory and sweet. The goat cheese and sour cream filling, sweetened with honey, bakes up and settles like a cheesecake in the basil infused tart crust. Once cooled, the tart is topped with fresh, ripe blackberries and drizzled with warm honey. Perhaps unexpected, the complex flavors of blackberry and basil contrast elegantly against the strong flavor of the goat cheese. This tart has served me both as a dessert and weeknight dinner. This tart is certainly one to impress.

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Blackberry Lemonade

I've disappeared for the last few days to enjoy the long labor day weekend. Spent with family and friends, it was good to step away from the kitchen and step outside for a change. The weekend weather couldn't be any more beautiful, with a sun that wouldn't stop shining, bringing warmth to the last few days of t-shirt weather.

Winter comes quickly to the plains of North Dakota.

The past couple days I've tried to breathe in the last few days of summer. To hold it in my lungs before the brisk fall air snatches it away, leaving me breathless. With the sun setting earlier each evening and a cool breeze blowing in at dusk, fall is slowly creeping its way back into its rightful time slot. I wish I could hold tightly on to summer, to the warm weather and sunlit nights. But, like a child clinging tightly on to a balloon, sooner or later the string slips from grasp and the balloon floats away high into the clouds before disappearing from sight completely.

I can't prevent fall from coming any more than you can, but I can keep summer alive for a few more days with this blackberry lemonade.

As a bit of a side note, I want to share a different kind of story with you.

I spent Saturday in Minot, ND. Recently devastated by record flooding (imagine homes up to the roofs in water), it is a town in a state of rebuild. It may be a small town of only 40,000 people, but the people have some of the biggest hearts I've ever seen, including actor Josh Duhamel who calls Minot his hometown. Josh, hearing the news of the devastation, brought none other than his wife Fergie and the Black Eyed Peas to play a benefit concert in Minot, with all proceeds going towards the flood victims. At $100 a ticket, corporate sponsorships, and a sold out venue, over $1.2 million dollars were raised for the cause.

I'm telling you this because I think it's important to know what kind of people your favorite artists and actors truly are. I want to share what the generosity of a few people—Josh Duhamel and the Black Eyed Peas—can do for the spirits and pocketbooks of a flood ravaged community. No one expected to see the Black Eyed Peas in Minot in a million years, much less playing a full concert (and I don't think anyone ever anticipated will.i.am rapping about how awesome North Dakota is).

These people have earned my respect and I hope, by sharing this with you, they can earn yours too.

This Blackberry Lemonade is sweet the second it hits your tongue, but tart the moment you swallow. Both the lemon and blackberries work together to create this balanced drink where both flavors shine equally. The lemonade is as refreshing as its color is bold. I hope this blackberry lemonade can help prolong the final weeks of summer for you, too.

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Mixed Berry Crumble

I have a soft spot for neglected fruit. Slightly bruised, a little overripe, sitting quietly in the corner minding its own business. They might be a little imperfect. They might be a little flawed. They might not make the cover of any magazines. They might be just like me (and maybe you).
When I was last at the market, I spotted a small table full of all the overdue summer berries, looking for a good home. These were the leftovers. The unwanted ones. As if to prove my point, a smarmy woman walked by and remarked, "Oh, would you look at those. A mile past their expiration date if you ask me." Well, I wasn't asking her. And I bought them just the same.
Bruised fruit is absolutely perfect to make tarts, pies, and crumbles. When I made this crumble, I could hardly contain myself when they were baking in the oven. The fruit bubbled and boiled, filling the air with sweet scents. And these crumbles? They actually sung. The fruit crackled. It popped. It hissed with the glorious sounds of bubbling over. These crumbles are worth making for that and that alone.

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