Raspberry picking this weekend was not as much fun as I remember it being when I was a kid. This weekend, it seemed that the berries were either well past ripe, not yet ripe, or non-existent. It was to the point that I stopped eating as I picked because I wasn't really getting enough raspberries to chew on and besides, if we didn't all start collecting them, we were never going to be able to fill our little berry container.
When I was a kid, my sisters and our neighborhood friends and I would go to the wild raspberry patch adjacent to "our" city park. We'd have to wear sweatshirts even in warm weather, and we'd pull up the hood and cinch it tight around our faces--because we were, no doubt about it, going to get eaten alive by mosquitoes as we picked.
Nonetheless, we girded our loins and braved the bugs because there were a lot of beautiful, ripe, delicious raspberries to be had. Mmmmm. Raspberries that were picked 20 minutes ago, smashed slightly and with a little sugar, over vanilla ice cream. Now that was good.
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