By JAMIE PARSELL
Bluefield Daily Telegraph
BLUEFIELD —
A tiny scar, pale pink in color, stands out against a golden summer tan. A few more months and the scar will eventually fade away — along with the glow acquired through vacations, picnics and daily walks. The scar isn’t the result of an accident-prone or injury laded adult. The almost unnoticeable pink speck came from hours of enjoying one of the greatest summer activities in the two Virginias — berry picking. But unless a blackberry bush is present in the backyard, one must look for the fruit in other places — wooden areas, steep bank and hills and hidden paths. The hunt is a part of the game; the fruit is the sweet reward, a sharp tang during the middle of summer.
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I was lucky this year. To my surprise, I discovered tons of blackberry bushes, nestled on a barbed wire fence. I admit I had to do a double take. The plump dark blackberries were not there last summer, or even during the summer of 2008. The discovery was magic; I had found a secret treasure — a rich, ripe treat on a hot day in July. My mood instantly shifted from distaste to utter delight. Only minutes before the discovery, I had unhappily pulled out the lawn mower. The grass was tall; I was tired, but eager to get the job done. Row and row, I pushed the red lawn mower, making sure to not miss any patches of tall weeds. At the end of the row, next to a barbed wire fence, briars grew in a tangled mess. From experience, I knew to avoid getting the lawn mower too close to the scratchy briars. But out of the corner of my eye, I spied something black, blue and red.
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Dark purple orbs dangled from the prickly brown and green leaves. They danced in the wind, slowly reaching out, beckoning to be picked by eager hands. I stopped the lawn mower, staring at the wonder of summer, then ran inside the kitchen to grab containers. The temptation — it arrives in seconds — to eat the first blackberry of the season straight off the vine is hard to resist. Without even thinking, I picked the first, ripe berry and closed my eyes against the tart taste. I filled the first container in less than 30 minutes. A second container overflowed with berries. And as the sun began to sink lower in the sky, I jumped the fence, working on the other side. I was determined to pick as many blackberries as I could — before the birds and other animals stole summer’s treasure. The sun disappeared from view. Dusk settled over the bushes as I continued to search for more fruit.
In the moment of discovery, I lost track of time; I forgot about dinner and the grass, which still needed attention before the next day. I was envisioning cobblers, pies, cakes and simple sugar on top of blackberries. The continuous motion and the taste of summer recreated a scene from childhood. Growing up in the Glenwood area, blackberry bushes hung over the fence. Together, my family and I would pick nature’s candy, knowing the end result would be an idiot pie, also known as a fruit cobbler. On that summer evening in July, I began to imagine an idiot pie — full of sweet, warm blackberries. Handed down from my grandmother, the idiot pie needs only a few ingredients: Sugar, butter, flour and blackberries. It is a simple recipe, the end result of an old-fashioned summertime activity.
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A sharp jab of pain ended my culinary dream. A thorn had made an ugly mark on my hand. Dozens of other small streaks of red covered my hands and fingers. Lost in blackberry dreams, I had ignored the tiny briars and thorns in the bushes. The streaks began to sting; my back started to ache. Fatigue settled in for the night. Satisfied, I ate a few more berries, covered in white sugar. It was the perfect ending to a sweet surprise.
Jamie Parsell is the Lifestyle editor of the Daily Telegraph. Contact her at jparsell@bdtonline.com
