(re-post)
The summer morning was cool and cloud-flecked, dew still on the grass. There was a wealth of rubies in the raspberry patch. The intent had not been to pick any berries: if so I would have slipped on the pixie puddler boots, brought along the berry-collection basket.
I was merely wandering around checking out the garden, walking like a duck to keep sandal and sock watering to a minimum. The jewels would not be ignored. A fresh-picked anything dances on the tongue and pleases the palate like no other food can, but a berry is particularly attractive.
I did not hesitate to partake and waded into the wetness of the berry patch, picking gladly. However, at the same time, the wild morning glory was going hand over hand up the canes and in its enthusiastic climbing was bending and strangling, so I was pulling it out as well.
It suddenly occurred to me that bindweed juice might not be such a wonderful thing to ingest along with the berries. Washing hands would have involved too much time and effort: I sought a simple and immediate solution.
Aha! A berry leaf picked from a stem became a receptacle for picking a berry and transporting it to the mouth in much the same way as a roti scoops up and conveys Indian food from plate to mouth.
After awhile the scent of rosemary and lavender, released as I shifted around the raspberry canes which are shoulder to shoulder and knee to knee with the lavender and rosemary, (this is a very chummy garden; some might call it crowded or a bit wild), made me wonder what the herbs would taste like with raspberries.
I threw away the leaf, wiped my fingers down my skirt with the idea of ridding hands of any non-desirable bindweed flavouring, then stained my fingers heavily with rosemary.
Picked a berry and rolled it around the rosemary marinade. Popped it in my mouth. Oh, delicious. I repeated the process with the lavender. Dessert.
Posted on July 03, 2007 at 06:11 AM | Permalink
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