The day I was born [1] my Mom was out pruning the black raspberry bushes [2]. From that portentous beginning, I’ve always loved black raspberries. Red raspberries I can take or leave, I find them cloying and watery at the same time. But a black raspberry is like a fine glass of wine, rich and deep and bursting with flavor.
Black raspberries grow wild along the woods all over our farm now. In a wet year like this they’re plentiful and plump. I went and picked yesterday and had a couple of quarts in half an hour or so.
Of course, Owen and Spenser (the Wonder Dogs) went along to help pick berries. Who knows what sort of trouble I would’ve gotten into without their supervision. Spenser ran through the woods non-stop the entire time while Owen lounged in the clover.
I gave half the berries to Mom and Dad. I made half of what I kept into a pie tonight.
This is an incredible pie, but even better is to eat the berries fresh. That’s probably what I’ll do with what I have left. Then I think since they’re so plentiful this year I’ll go pick another batch and make jam.
It’s a good time in a good year.
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