I Am Not a Berry Lover

I know, I know. How can I not love berries? How is it possible that I moved to Washington state, capitol of the Berry World, and not care for berries?

Yeah, yeah. So what? The fact is strawberries leave me cold; raspberries leave me lukewarm; blueberries I've never even eaten, and I don't have a desire to. And a marionberry? What the crap is that?

But I can't ignore the blackberry, as much as I've tried. I can't even take a walk outside without tripping over a blackberry bush; see flocks of birds flying out of the bushes startled from their blackberry feast; take a drive without spotting a blackberry bramble so huge it could swallow a three-story building in a single gulp. This time of year, the berries are just falling off the bushes in juicy clumps, begging you to take them home and eat them. No, no, they leap off the bushes, straight into your hands, and plead, "oh, pleeeeease eat me! Look how luscious I am! Look at my deep color, how I am oozing with juice! Please! If you don't eat me, that nasty starling will, and his beak is sooo sharp!" Okay, fine. What have I got to lose? They are free berries, after all.

So a week or so ago the child and I marched out in our backyard, over the broken fence, and into the weedy wilderness behind our house. There are blackberry brambles growing in legion out there, and fortunately, they are relatively small brambles. Which means you can actually pick the berries without impaling yourself.

(The first thing that I learned about blackberries is they are dangerous. The juice stains like mad, and as you're picking them, you can't tell if that's juice on your finger or if that last thorn really got you good...and what is with all the thorns?

I rather think that the blackberry bushes are man-eating. See, they lure you inside their prickly innards, tempting you along with sweet and juicy fruity goodness, until suddenly you find you can't turn back. There are thorns on all sides of you, you can no longer see your way out, and then you hear the bramble surrounding you cackle evilly. Then the brambles close in to feed on you, until there is nothing left but a pile of bones and more juicy berries... (yes, I have read Gaiman's Stardust. Why do you ask?))

Once I picked them, I wasn't really sure what to do with them. So I did with them what any sensible woman would do: I tossed them in the blender and tried to make a shake out of them. (The second thing I learned about blackberries is that they are seedy. Very. Did you know this about blackberries? I didn't. Seedy shakes are not good, so I strained the blackberry pulp, threw them back in the blender, then added the ice cream.) Here, a picture of the lovely shakes I made:

Well, it would have been a picture of a shake, but I didn't get the camera out in time. They went pretty fast. Even Jake, the pickiest eater in three counties, had a shake and then asked for more. They were very, very good.

Now that I've had a taste of success, I have over-enthusiastically allowed myself to be talked into making jam with a woman I know. I've never done this, ever. But she says it's easy* and fun*, so I guess I'm going to bite the housewifely bullet and sugar me up some berries and can 'em. I'll let you know how it turns out. (Elizabeth~w, Marie—are you still wanting some blackberry jam badly enough that you would want some I made?)

*The same woman has used the same words to describe emergency preparedness, quilting, genealogy, and food storage. I must be an idiot.