Blackberries for Barb

We're about halfway through July. so you know what that means...any day now, they'll fire up the back to school ads.

a modest sampling

Ugh.

Back in the day when anyone who mentioned the "s" (school) word got smacked down, summers seemed to stretch on forever. 

Endless games of tag and kick the can and treasure hunts and roller skating and bike riding and playing in the garage when it rained. And, in spite of all these activities, the inevitable, "there's nothing to do" followed by Mom's refrain, "I can give you something to do," followed by a speedy retreat.

One of our yearly activities was blackberry picking. There was an area along Rockside Road that was still wild (alas, no longer) where you could find blackberries aplenty. We'd take buckets and pick away, careful not to get too scratched up or bug eaten in the process. We'd bring home our spoils, and Mom would bake them into a fabulous pie. 

This memory returned hard and fast when I discovered that the modest blackberry bush that snuck into the side yard last year had become the thing that took over the place this year. Initially, I was delighted. Who doesn't love fresh blackberries? But soon my delight turned to chagrin as I realized how bountiful this beast was.

So, what have I been doing this summer? Picking a crap-ton (or is it a shit-ton?) of blackberries. I've frozen enough now for one pie (or maybe two or ten) but there are still plenty out there.

If you're driving by and have a hankering for blackberries, feel free to pick to your heart's content.

Just watch out for the prickers and the bugs. 

Happy (what's left of) Summer!

P.S. Kudos to those sharp-eyed readers who observe such things: My title riffs off the name of a favorite childhood book, Blueberries for Sal, by Robert McCloskey.