Fresh picked

Ah, the joys of foraging. There are few flavors as delightful as the sweet tart juice of a ripe blackberry. Found nearly everywhere throughout our urban jungle, this abundant and pervasive berry grows thick on trails, in alleys, in parks, backyards, and empty lots, and anywhere else a seed can take root and spread vociferously.

Here in the Northwest, the Himilayan's are plentiful. A short break from work and I'm out on the Interurban Trail, helpless, sucked in every few steps to pick another handful, dodge thorns, and attempt to keep the berries from staining my hands and clothes.

I have a method. I pick a handful, hold on to them, continue to pick, and shove the newly picked into my mouth while keeping the handful for eating while walking.

These aren't native to the Northwest. They're invasive, and we welcome them only in August and September when they're bulging with berries; the rest of the year, they're a thorn in the sides of anyone charged with landscaping. A message into our our general email box at work asked whether the berries on the trail were sprayed. I had to inform the sender that they were, in fact, a weed, and if sprayed, they would die.

That said, the berries can be found in the stores here during the height of the season, sometimes for as much as $6 a pound. I just can't bring myself to pay for them, although I'll admit to being occasionally tempted when I haven't had time to pick them.

We fought the good fight in our own backyard. When I was a kid, my grandfather kept the bushes manageable. I had tunnels and pathways throughout so I could get to the best berries. But over the years, long after he was gone, they just kept growing, and spreading, until they covered much of the back yard and lot.

Close to a decade ago now, we decided they should go, along with all the other invasives, and Forrest dug them out - root by root, thorny stem by thorny stem. Some of the roots were 8 ft. long and at least six inches around. The effort to remove them was arduous and valiant.

Today, we still come across a fledgling vine, and it's quickly dispatched. I miss the berries, but it's much more satisfying to have a yard and multiple gardens that produce for more than a month.

While not quite as accessible as a few steps away, the roadside thatch is enough. I could still make the jams, jellies, pies and cobblers I grew up with if I felt so compelled. But for now, I'm happy just to pick a daily handful (or five) and savor the memories of melting ice cream on a fresh-from-the-oven (or in one case, the Coleman stove) cobbler.