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In Nova Scotia my daughter and I
went blackberry picking.
We walked a mile into the woods
from our starting point
at the edge of civilization—
far enough in to feel wild,
but not so far that we were competing with
bears
for the berries,
which were thick on the prickly stems,
the thorns catching on long sleeves that
failed to foil
the squadrons of mosquitoes
claiming squatters' rights
to the blackberry tangles.
We were bitten.
Berries as big as my first thumb joint were rare.
More common were the tiny wild berries
like the ones my children used to pick in Tennessee
with their grandmother,
who took all three to her favourite patch
where they gathered the makings
for the famous Grandma Harwell Blackberry Cobbler.
But, shades of the Little Red Hen,
two of these children were good
for only five minutes' picking
after which they disappeared in search of shade or sun, whichever they felt was missing,
while only one,
this daughter with me in Nova Scotia,
only one stayed the course
and picked and picked until grandma finally said,
Now we have enough.
As we picked
My daughter and I spoke little
except to comment on the abundance of berries
and the nuisance of mosquitoes.
One hand brushed away the silent swarms
while the other dropped berry
after berry
after berry
into the bucket
except for the ones that went
straight into our mouths.
We took care not to
pop
a mosquito in as well.
We never did remember
for sure
whether Grandma Harwell's cobbler recipe
had a bottom crust
or only its golden, sugar-sprinkled top.
Food blog: http://fastandfearlesscooking.blogspot.ca
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