Blackberries invaded our retaining wall where I whack and curse them with hatred. But the ones at Discovery Park and the marshes at Magnuson I view completely differently. We have fond memories of two of our Weimaraners standing below us, bearing their front teeth to nibble their own berries from the lower brambles while we pick berries from the top. Our first Weim, though, would just watch us, waiting to be hand fed. Oslo, my Little Prince. 🤍
May I offer another successful repurposed Blackberry carafe? From my father's tinkering ways - he would take one of the plastic half-gallon or gallon container of milk that comes with a handle. At the top of the jug, on the side directly opposite the handle, use a knife and (safely! he would want me to add) cut out a hole that is roughly square and wide enough for you to comfortably dip your hand into. The goal is to maintain enough structural stiffness of the handle, so that you can thread it onto your belt for hands free holding! I can vouch for many successful picking missions in the wilds of Seattle.
I too live by anticipation. It makes me happy to always have something to look forward to.....whether it be a major life event or a simple everyday pleasure like knowing there will be cobbler to eat for dessert. Thank you for the wonderful story, recipe and poem!
This really beautiful piece made me feel a whole lot better that when I buy blackberries I know I will have them all to myself because the rest of the house doesn't like them. On the one hand, that seems selfish. On the other it's their loss. I've forwarded this to several of them because that's just how petty a blackberry lover I am.
Really beautiful and funny. Blackberries are my favorite berries and after reading this I want some bad.
My richest berry picking happened in McCall, Idaho at Payette Lake. Huckleberries. Unlike any berry I have had since. Like June, not very many made it back with me either.
Oh yes, there are blackberries in Oklahoma! But you risk your life because of the chiggers in the bushes, tiny red almost invisible demons that bite with an itch that defies Calamine lotion, Camphofenique, and a baking soda bath. No, thank you!
We used to pick them at Girl Scout camp in Skamania County. We put them in hand-cranked ice cream (wonderful!) and Dutch oven cobblers.
My husband grew up in Rwanda, and while it would take a whole explanation of Rwandan language and how Rwandans don't really talk about food to get all the NUANCE here, he told me they used to pick wild strawberries as kids. Except I gave him strawberries and he said they weren't quite right. I tried blueberries. "Kind of like that, but no." Raspberries came into season. "These are good, but the ones I picked as a kid were the best." Finally, blackberry season. "THIS IS IT!"
A few times during my childhood, my dad picked what he calls “dewberries” (which I think are simply wild blackberries) out behind his workplace. In Texas, you have to fight the snakes and varmints for them. No thanks! It made them that much more special when he did pick some for a cobbler.
Blackberries invaded our retaining wall where I whack and curse them with hatred. But the ones at Discovery Park and the marshes at Magnuson I view completely differently. We have fond memories of two of our Weimaraners standing below us, bearing their front teeth to nibble their own berries from the lower brambles while we pick berries from the top. Our first Weim, though, would just watch us, waiting to be hand fed. Oslo, my Little Prince. 🤍
May I offer another successful repurposed Blackberry carafe? From my father's tinkering ways - he would take one of the plastic half-gallon or gallon container of milk that comes with a handle. At the top of the jug, on the side directly opposite the handle, use a knife and (safely! he would want me to add) cut out a hole that is roughly square and wide enough for you to comfortably dip your hand into. The goal is to maintain enough structural stiffness of the handle, so that you can thread it onto your belt for hands free holding! I can vouch for many successful picking missions in the wilds of Seattle.
I too live by anticipation. It makes me happy to always have something to look forward to.....whether it be a major life event or a simple everyday pleasure like knowing there will be cobbler to eat for dessert. Thank you for the wonderful story, recipe and poem!
This really beautiful piece made me feel a whole lot better that when I buy blackberries I know I will have them all to myself because the rest of the house doesn't like them. On the one hand, that seems selfish. On the other it's their loss. I've forwarded this to several of them because that's just how petty a blackberry lover I am.
I just laughed out loud at the idea of someone claiming ownership of a blackberry thicket in Seattle. And now I need to make a cobbler…
Ditto on anticipation. It's maybe my favorite feeling. All the possibility! All the magic that could unfold! Oh it's the best.
Really beautiful and funny. Blackberries are my favorite berries and after reading this I want some bad.
My richest berry picking happened in McCall, Idaho at Payette Lake. Huckleberries. Unlike any berry I have had since. Like June, not very many made it back with me either.
Oh yes, there are blackberries in Oklahoma! But you risk your life because of the chiggers in the bushes, tiny red almost invisible demons that bite with an itch that defies Calamine lotion, Camphofenique, and a baking soda bath. No, thank you!
We used to pick them at Girl Scout camp in Skamania County. We put them in hand-cranked ice cream (wonderful!) and Dutch oven cobblers.
My husband grew up in Rwanda, and while it would take a whole explanation of Rwandan language and how Rwandans don't really talk about food to get all the NUANCE here, he told me they used to pick wild strawberries as kids. Except I gave him strawberries and he said they weren't quite right. I tried blueberries. "Kind of like that, but no." Raspberries came into season. "These are good, but the ones I picked as a kid were the best." Finally, blackberry season. "THIS IS IT!"
Thank you. Just what I needed to read. Thank you for remembering, for taking the time to write it all down. Beautiful.
A few times during my childhood, my dad picked what he calls “dewberries” (which I think are simply wild blackberries) out behind his workplace. In Texas, you have to fight the snakes and varmints for them. No thanks! It made them that much more special when he did pick some for a cobbler.
And now my mouth is watering...