My answer is this: when you have a family recipe with a funny name, you must share it. Especially when it requires five ingredients, one bowl, one pan, one spoon. Especially when it is sweet.
For over a century my grandmother's relatives have spent their summers in Sorrento, Maine. My parents just recently hopped on the bandwagon, and they now spend the month of August summering. Nearly everyone there is a cousin, whether honorary or second or once removed. And at every gathering, my father's cousin Hasso always brings out a large pan full of blueberry schlumpf: a gooey mess of wild blueberries, topped with a second mess of sugar-butter-flour pebbles. Mess two sinks into mess one.
As I write this, my parents are up in Maine, engaging in leisure activities. I remain in New York, envious, closing my eyes hard and remembering the colors that the sky turns over the Atlantic when the sun begins to set and the clouds diffuse orange and pink light.
I pick up a pint of Not Maine Blueberries at the market, and I do my best to fill the schlumpf-sized hole in my heart.