Saturday night during the play, a friend invited me to come pick blackberries. Well, I can remember from when I was a kid picking blackberries at my Grandma's house, so I gave an enthusiastic "yes" and we made a plan.
The plan, though, frayed because I didn't take into account the burden we felt to pick each and every berry ripe and ready to be picked. It's as if by their deep hue, each was saying, "If you don't pick ME, then I will have existed for nothing. Please pick and enjoy me."
I know what you're thinking.
This woman is nuts. She has fruit talking to her.
Perhaps, but I shared with one of my fellow pickers how it seemed a shame - a sin, even - not to get every ripe berry we possibly could. Trying to ease my conscience, I asked:
Will the cows eat them?
"No", he replied. "The cows will eat the vines, but not the berries."
What about the birds?
"They'll have a time getting some of them with all the briers.
Point taken.
I have scratches all up and down my right arm (a.k.a. the "picking" arm). Still I consider them badges of blackberry honor.
My son wasn't so enthusiastic to go blackberry picking, as I had bought some at Kroger a while back, and he deemed them "unfit to eat."
So not true with these. He looked like a clown because of all the berry juice around his mouth. Nevertheless, a few berries did make in into the bucket.
What to do now?
My husband has plans for blackberry wine. Me? I'm a cobbler girl myself.
