Saturday, August 18, 2007

blackberries, again

We can't stop thinking about blackberries. They are slower to ripen on the edges of our high altitude field. We are watching them slowly turn from a yellow-pink, to red, then deepen to the black-purple that tells that they are ready to be picked.

The cats, Arlette and Janvier, like to hide in the treeline, not too far from the house, beneath the blackberries. They sit on a smooth paleolithic stone hidden in their fruited jungle remembering their panthered ancestory. We press against the thorny bushes, and stick our arms through the vale of leaves and thorns to reach what's there for the picking. Up the road, we loose ourselves in a tangle grasping for the fruit, our arms and legs gloriously marked with our battle scratches. We compare our wounds and generally feel victorious.

We bring in our harvest to the restaurant along with another pint from Nick and Theresa's farm stand. Although all these berries are wild, there are different varieties that line our fields and roads. Ours are quite bright, almost citrusy in flavor, while Nick and Theresa's have a softer, rounder, darker taste. We've been serving them with fresh, ripe melon, prosciutto, and slivers of aromatic mint as an antipasto at the restaurant. All finished with a squeeze of lemon.

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