…or maybe raspberry curd

I’m just not sure how.

We didn’t even know they were there our first summer here four years ago. Then we noticed a few berries of some kind, growing among the exotic sunflowers and wildflowers we had planted along the backyard’s fence (my husband and I.) When my kids were young we’d often picked blackberries in our Oregon neighborhood. There were thorns; these had none. Now I know “thornless do some blackberries grow!”

The next year there were a few more, enough to share in one evening. And now there were also raspberries. Enough to share as we picked and save for breakfast cereal all week.

This year I have 3 pints of raspberries in the freezer after eating probably that much and after making raspberry curd. The raspberry curd was so elegantly delicious I felt guilty sneaking it by the spoonfuls with only the refrigerator as my witness.

Guilt is only momentary when the raspberries fall back to sleep and the blackberries demand your awe and attention. “There are so many this year!” We say to each other. “Is it because of the mild winter?” Two gallons, one cobbler, picking, eating and counting. No end in sight. Except we know: this, too, is a season. It will indeed end. And we will wait to see what next season brings.