I still remember the first time I picked blackberries at Highbanks. I was horrified. Never had I suffered through such an ordeal for something I didn't even like to eat. Tom and I were pretty newly married--he liked them, so I picked them for him. (He also likes rhubarb, but I have to draw the line somewhere...ick.)
These blackberries are wild--brambly and loaded with beautiful blackberries. They are also loaded with briars. These gangly canes had me in their stickery clutches from the first berry picked. I was poked, stuck, and entangled...and melting. Seldom is there a mild day when blackberry picking is done. It seems the more humid, the greater the need to pick.
A conspiracy to be sure.
However, over the many years that I've returned to the blackberry brambles, I've learned to actually enjoy the picking. I love the orderliness of how a grouping of blackberries (I'm sure there's a fancy term for this) has a distinct pattern of which berry will ripen; I love the smooth gentle "snap" of the ripe berry as it's removed from the crown on its stem.
And, believe it or not, I've even developed a real liking for them.
The picking has become an evening-time pleasure this time of year--no more horrors, just a little scratch from time to time...and the taste of a giant-sized blackberry makes it all worthwhile.
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