The Himalayan blackberry is a particularly noxious weed in the Pacific Northwest. It grows, well, like a weed; in our mild climate it is nearly impossible to kill; eleven months out of the year it is a useless, irritating tangle of nightmarish spikes that rip cloth and rake skin.
But...in August the berries get ripe.
So, without further digression: the Secret Berry Alley
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Mmmm. Berries. There was a recipe for a blackberry margarita in yesterday's paper and now I'm inspired to try it out. You should have seen the 2 litre stainless steel martini glasses I saw last night at the local cookware sale. That would have definitely put me over the edge onto the social worker's bad list.
We had a secret berry patch, too. Unfortunately, the city saw fit to mow it down to make a -- mown piece of dirt.
When I wasn't much older than your young'un, and living in the SF Bay foothills, we had one of those secret patches on the hill above the house. Blackberries and raspberries. Still remember all that juice running down fondly. He will, too.
I should come clean and admit that 11 months out of the year I HATE these damn berries. They are just nature's concertina wire and in the course of my job I have to hack through them constantly, getting ripped up and loathing them all the while.
But in August, now...the sweetness of the berries reminds me of why Luther Burbank imported the damned thorny bastards in the first place.
I just wish they weren't so prolific...
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