I always think of blackberries on the fourth of July. A weird association, considering that most Americans probably hear "Independence Day" and think "Barbecue. Beer. Mmmmm. Beer."

But...

Today is my father's birthday (Happy Birthday, Dad!) so the 4th generally means some kind of celebratory dessert. When I was little, my family spent a few summers renting a house in Westport, Massachusetts (very, very different from the tawny Westport, Connecticut, lest  you judge me, judger.). The simple vacation rental had a grassy backyard that spilled right onto a small, rocky beach. Dad had these waist-high rubber waders, and I remember many summer nights spent perched on his shoulders while he stood in the ocean with his fishing pole, trying, in vain, to catch the next night's supper.

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Every Saturday, there's a farmer's market that's about a ten minute walk from my house. I headed down there today, coffee in hand, ready to navigate the armies of yuppie moms chatting on iPhones while pushing gigantic strollers (these women make my brain make this noise: arrrrrrrwwwwweeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaggggggg!!!!!).

The sun was shining, the strawberries were abundant, the Greenpeace petitioners were armed with smiles and catchy opening lines. Right away I smelled something intoxicating. Lemony. Basily.

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I am not a food snob, nor do I aspire to be one. I'm just a lady who grew up eating amazing food, thanks to my Mom's badass culinary stylings.

Mom's cooking was (and is) so good, in fact, that I've always been a little bit intimidated by the kitchen, because I know that I'll never be able to open my cupboards and just "know" what to make for dinner with the ingredients I've got stocked, like Mom always seems to. She's also an amazing baker, and Christmas, especially, is always a sinful and sugary wonderland of cookies, breads, pies, tarts, and candy.

Until I hit 30ish, I usually went the take-out route. It was easier, especially since, most of the time, I was dining solo. The nights I didn't eat in front of the TV, I went out for dinner with friends, hitting divey neighborhood favorites with the same gusto as trendy of-the-moment bistros.

Eventually, I got tired of eating this way. And I got engaged, to a wonderful man who counts grilled cheese sandwiches and steaks with rose-red centers among his favorite dishes to prepare and to eat. After we moved in together, I also got a little bit fat.

So, I decided to start cooking; to save money, save some calories, and try and develop my relationship with my mother, who has spent my entire life expressing love through delicious and healthy food. I hope to one day do the same for my children.

I have an arsenal of cookbooks and a Williams Sonoma's worth of gadgets, thanks, of course, to Mom. She always hoped that I'd get the cooking 'bug,' and she delights in helping me add to my collection of culinary equipment that until pretty recently served only to collect dust in my kitchen.

I live in San Francisco and Mom lives in Boston, and, together, over the phone and via email, we are working towards arming me with the same skills that Mom developed over 30+ years of cooking for her family. Not a meal goes by without me phoning Mom for help. These conversations are filled with recipes, laughter, and so much advice-on-the-fly on Mom's part that I often joke that she should open a hotline for people like me who need guidance on how to sear a steak, or who are halfway through making pie crust when they realize they don't have buttermilk. Mom knows all - even how to make said buttermilk from milk and vinegar. (Maybe it's old news to you, but to a novice cook like me, that's magical!)

So yes, this is yet another cooking blog, but for me it's more a way to share not only recipes, but my mother's delicious wisdom, one ingredient at a time.