RASPBERRIES
When we were young, we used to spend our summers at the cottage. They were lazy days, yet filled with adventure.
Aside from the barbecues, swimming, and fort building, one if the biggest routines was berry picking with my mother.
She would pile us into the dodge caravan and drive us out into the wilds. Depending on the weather that summer, and the month itself, the berries would vary.
Blueberries were the worst, those small little antioxidizers that clung voraciously to their shrubs. They mostly grew in swamps, and the process inevitably resulted in soaking, peat scented feet.
Blackberries weren't much better. They lay low to the ground on the dusty fringes of the dirt roads. Many days were spent hunched over gathering those particular berries.
Raspberries were by far the best, despite their prickly stems. By placing a bucket beneath there green awning of the raspberry bushes, you could practically shake a load of plump red berries free.
The results were always worth the effort in retrospect. Succulent jams and barbecued bumbleberry pies; a mix of blueberry, blackberry, raspberry, and sometimes strawberry filled our bellies.
To this day, the raspberries are still my favorite.
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