Blueberry and mulberry corn crumble

An English/American hybrid summer bake

Welcome to the fourth installment of our corn series. Today we’re making Blueberry and mulberry corn crumble. Crumble was the dessert of my childhood. In England, it followed the seasons—rhubarb in the spring, berries in the summer, apples and blackberries in autumn, pears and quince during the depths of winter. It arrived at the table steaming, the fruit soft and syrupy beneath a golden, craggy crust. Always a little sunken, the crust would collapse once met with a generous pour of hot custard. But here in California, when I say crumble, I often receive a polite pause, followed by: “You mean a crisp?” Not quite. But almost.

A crisp is, I suppose, the American cousin—lighter, often oat-strewn, sometimes scattered with nuts. A crumble, at least the kind I grew up with, was all about the topping: buttery and soft yet substantial, somewhere between shortbread and streusel. This recipe certainly sits squarely between the two—borrowing the best of both, then adding something entirely its own.

The inspiration came from a walk. A nearby mulberry tree had generously strewn its fruit, staining the pavement with deep purple blotches. I gathered what I could, stained fingertips evidence of the harvest. They’re delicate things, mulberries—almost too soft to handle—so I mixed them with sturdier blueberries. A few cherries wouldn’t hurt. Or blackberries, if you are blessed with a glut.

Then the topping. Including cornmeal in the crumble does something subtle but transformative; it adds serious texture - a pleasing rustic crunch - and a gentle hint of nutty sweetness. I also add slivered almonds and a splash of almond extract, which seems to hum in harmony with the blueberries. This crumble tastes of late June and asks for nothing more than a spoon.

You can make the cornmeal-almond crumble topping 2 to 3 days in advance—just keep it chilled until you're ready to bake. The flour in the filling helps gently thicken the berry juices as they bake, creating a syrupy rather than soupy liquid.

Take this recipe as a starting point. Crumble is less about precision and more about instinct. You judge it by feel, rubbing the topping between your fingertips until it clumps just so; by sight, when the berries begin to glisten and slump; and by sound, when the fruit starts to bubble at the edges of the dish; and finally, by smell as the intense fruity, buttery aromas fill the house, whereupon doors open and feet clatter, heralding the arrival of the hungry hordes.

Serve warm, with vanilla ice cream, hot custard, a spoonful of crème fraîche, or just as it is—fruit-forward and full of sun.