Berry Hunting

I really want to make a blackberry crisp for all my family that is arriving over the next few days. I can almost taste its succulence right now. There is a problem, though. The blackberries might not even be ripe yet. There are so many bushes growing over, under, and through everything within their reach that I should find enough purple, juicy ones to make at least a small dessert. That is what I am hoping anyway.

Picking berries isn't for the fainthearted. Right off the bat, I will have to put on battle gear. Old tennis shoes, a long sleeved work-shirt, and paint spattered jeans go on first, followed by gloves that I will shed after the first few minutes because it is almost impossible to pick berries with gloves on. Then I will have to trudge through the drizzle and wet grass to face the mountainous bushes. With my largest bowl in hand, I will then shout out, " Iiiiiiiieeee! Let the battle begin!"

The thorns on those long, thick canes are evil. They lash out and attack without warning. They grab sleeves, pant legs, and even hair, never missing the opportunity to draw blood. You would think that were enough, but no, there are the berries themselves, berries that turn everything they touch into colors of bruises: shades of red, blue, and purple. I am talking not only about hands and shirts here, but also about shoes, pants, lips, and chins. By the time I return to the safety of my kitchen, if  I will look like I have fought a horrific battle it is because I have. Even though I will carry the new wounds next to my old scars, I will have won the battle.

All that will be left is to dress the wounds, make the crisp, and enjoy the spoils with my family. Oh yes, I also have berry stains to get off my hands and face. If I fail, I will ready for Halloween.

Goin' hunting for berries that God so abundantly supplies,
Jan