Mulberries

[loracs]

When I was child, we had a big, mulberry tree in our backyard. I loved those berries. I couldn't wait for them to turn dark, dark purple. Sometimes I'd try to eat them when they we only red, and had to spit them out for their sourness.

It was very labor intensive picking the soft berries by hand. One year I had a very bright idea; I needed to spread some material under the tree and then shake the branches to release the berries. Good idea; bad execution. I chose one of my mothers' white sheets for the cloth. The day was hot and the berries were very, very ripe. And, like most berries, they stained. My mother was not happy with the very artsy purple dyed sheet I presented her with that day.

Over the years, washing and bleach faded the splashes of purple. My mother's re-telling of that story never faded.

This memory was triggered by the bowl of blackberries I ate this morning. They may not be as sweet as my memory of the mulberries, but when I added milk and a little sugar - mmmm, it took me back.

Comments

[dbubley.livejournal.com]

We had a mulberry tree, but nobodt ate them except the birds. All of the cars in the neighborhood got bombed. I don't know why we never ate them, but we never did. My mother made a great blackberry cobbler. She also made gooseberry pie out of the gooseberries that grew wild in the alley. But nothing, not even fresh mulberries.