The youngest and I found our way a little off the beaten path picking blackberries a few weekends ago. We drove from spot to spot looking for the very ripest juiciest berries and ended up here. The view was spectacular.
The closer view was good too.
Years ago when my second was on the way and I was laid up my eldest and his dad would go out for walks and bring me back handfuls of blackberries. For some reason — I blame it on wacky pregnancy hormones — if the berry wasn’t perfectly sweet it made me feel that tartness more than I ever had before, and made me feel like I might turn inside out because of it. Not joking. And I’ve stayed that way, so I’m a bit of a goofball in seeking out the plumpest, sweetest, not picked over berries.
The berries were a bit mushy and our aspirations weren’t any higher than picking enough to make a blackberry crisp big enough for not just dessert that night but also cold for breakfast the next morning. A tradition and a must.
My aqua-nailed girl. Blackberries on the hip. All is good.
Forgot to take pictures of the crisp, or perhaps chose to protect camera from my drooling, but our crisp was scrumptious and huge and the most beautiful rich purple colour.
And I did take a picture of my breakfast the next day, post-breakfast.
Couldn’t resist.