If you've spent more than about ten minutes in the Pacific Northwest, you've seen blackberries growing wild in every forgotten corner. They're unmistakable. Most of the year, they're a terrible pest. The invasive, thorny vines grow like you neglected to invite a wicked fairy to your christening, forming a tangled mass that wends its way under and over and around and straight through anything that holds still.
But then late summer arrives. The berries bloom. And for a few brief weeks, you lay down your flamethrower and your enmity, and just enjoy the incredible bounty of shining ripe purple-black jewels.
Every summer, I say I'm going to pick enough blackberries to keep us in jam, pies, and smoothies all year. And every summer, the time gets away from me. So this week when I get home, I'm pulling out the kitchen colander, walking out to the corner, and filling it up with berries to freeze for later. My legs are scratched, my hands are full of thorny splinters, and my fingers and teeth are going to be stained purple for days. And I couldn't be happier.
I'm sure there's a life lesson somewhere in all of this. I'm just too busy eating wild, juicy berries to think about it.
|One of my favorite berry-picking buddies.|