The Streak
Lou Gehrig played 2,130 straight baseball games. My alma mater has had 50 straight winning seasons in football. Steve didn't go to the movies for 22 years.
Me, I make blackberry pie.
For 14 years now, I've gone blackberry picking and made a pie at least once every summer. My streak would probably be longer than that if you count the summers before my mom trusted me to make a pie on my own, and I just picked berries and "helped" while she cooked the pie. (My mom, by the way, has the world's best pie crust recipe, which she has passed on to me and my sister. I will share it with you if you email me and ask nicely).
Why do I do this? No particular reason other that I really enjoy picking blackberries, and I enjoy making pie. Here in Oregon, blackberries grow wild everywhere, free for the taking. They grow so much that they're considered an invasive weed. Any fence row, cow pasture, or country roadside is likely to be covered in them. Growing up in rural Sweet Home, there was always a patch of blackberries somewhere nearby where the picking was good in August. For as long as I can remember, seeking out the sweet, juicy berries has been a summer tradition. (If you see me in August with bright red scratches all over my forearms, don't worry; I haven't been attacked by a cat. I've just been berry picking.)
Since I've gotten older and moved around, I've had to seek out new blackberry spots at each place I've lived. Here in Wilsonville, I discovered a quiet side road near the town's community garden with a bunch of the towering, prickly bushes. Beth knows the joys of blackberry picking by now, and she put a few berries into the bucket and lots of them into her tummy. Eric and I picked somewhat more diligently, and Lucy slept in the stroller. I made a pie with what Eric and I picked, and we shared it with some friends who came to visit yesterday.
Now my summer can be complete. It's just not summer without blackberry pie.
Me, I make blackberry pie.
For 14 years now, I've gone blackberry picking and made a pie at least once every summer. My streak would probably be longer than that if you count the summers before my mom trusted me to make a pie on my own, and I just picked berries and "helped" while she cooked the pie. (My mom, by the way, has the world's best pie crust recipe, which she has passed on to me and my sister. I will share it with you if you email me and ask nicely).
Why do I do this? No particular reason other that I really enjoy picking blackberries, and I enjoy making pie. Here in Oregon, blackberries grow wild everywhere, free for the taking. They grow so much that they're considered an invasive weed. Any fence row, cow pasture, or country roadside is likely to be covered in them. Growing up in rural Sweet Home, there was always a patch of blackberries somewhere nearby where the picking was good in August. For as long as I can remember, seeking out the sweet, juicy berries has been a summer tradition. (If you see me in August with bright red scratches all over my forearms, don't worry; I haven't been attacked by a cat. I've just been berry picking.)
Since I've gotten older and moved around, I've had to seek out new blackberry spots at each place I've lived. Here in Wilsonville, I discovered a quiet side road near the town's community garden with a bunch of the towering, prickly bushes. Beth knows the joys of blackberry picking by now, and she put a few berries into the bucket and lots of them into her tummy. Eric and I picked somewhat more diligently, and Lucy slept in the stroller. I made a pie with what Eric and I picked, and we shared it with some friends who came to visit yesterday.
Now my summer can be complete. It's just not summer without blackberry pie.
1 comments:
any berry pie is good for me. every day i go past some blackberry bushes that are on the side of a road to a stranger's property. i wonder if they'd mind if i'd take care of their berry population for them? now i need to make a pie.
Post a Comment