sign of summer
A blackberry just burst on my tongue.
Yes, it's a shipped-from-somewhere-South berry, but basically ripe, and sweet and juicy. And I have several more in a bowl, and the rest of a small container I'm saving for breakfast.
(Sure, it's cool and damp this evening, but I have blackberries. Also hot chocolate, because it is that kind of night. Do I contradict myself? Very well...)
Yes, it's a shipped-from-somewhere-South berry, but basically ripe, and sweet and juicy. And I have several more in a bowl, and the rest of a small container I'm saving for breakfast.
(Sure, it's cool and damp this evening, but I have blackberries. Also hot chocolate, because it is that kind of night. Do I contradict myself? Very well...)
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The thing I miss, still, about the tiny weekend/summer cottage my parents had near Dryburgh, is picking blackberries: the feel of a perfectly ripe berry almost falling into my hand as I reach to pick it, the quick but careful check for other smaller eaters, the taste of the juicy black globules bursting in my mouth, the satisfactory feeling of seeing the brambles mounding up in the bucket, and the bramble-and-apple pie we used to have for pudding on those nights.
Mmmmm.
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