Among my favorite things are pie, blackberries, and good friends. Imagine what happens when a good friend writes an article about blackberries and blackberry pie:
It’s August in the Pacific Northwest, and the ubiquitous brambles of Himalayan blackberry, Rubus armeniacus, are suddenly covered with ripe berries, a transformation which radically –- hypocritically, even –- alters our attitude toward them.
For ten-and-a-half months each year, these highly invasive blackberry bushes are Seattle’s enemy. They rank high on the list of things we love to hate, along with bad espresso, SUVs and that other kind of Bush.
It’s understandable. The bushes are thorny enough to draw blood, and they spread unrelentingly, colonizing empty lots, city parks, freeways, and even our own backyards. The problem is so bad that entrepreneurs have set up goat rental businesses — blackberry canes are one of goats’ favorite foods — like Rent-a-Ruminant. I’m not making this up.
But in August and early September, everything changes. Those canes we cursed and dreamed of obliterating in dark, wet December now lure us out to collect mouthfuls and bucketfuls of complexly sweet berries. We’re captivated. It’s tempting to keep picking until you find the best berry, the huge one so ripe it nearly bursts with juice as you touch it.
Read the rest, and enjoy.