Blackberries - Bane becomes beatitudinal breakfast bowl.
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All year I cursed the thicket of thorns; they encroach and smoother the old apple orchard, denying me access to the noble fruit of Washington State. Those clawing canes of the brutal berry vines now cover the paths that were opened as late as last March, preventing me from wandering my own land. Squatters with a million million stickers have overwhelmed me with their verdant vileness.
Those prickly bastard blackberries have been the bane upon my surrounding landscape while living here on the banks of Pilchuck Creek, have now bloomed and born fruit.
What was cursed has become sublime. I rise with an early sun to slip the key into the locked gate to open my drive to contractors and their construction deliveries, and along the way to the gate, I gather sweet, sublime berries in their prime.
Early September is bright and mild upon land. In reply, the land offers up a bounty of sweet, juicy delights. There is nothing finer than ingesting the promises of late summer's dawning sunlight directly into ones soul. Plucking the perfect blackberry from its dew-drenched vine and popping it past the lips makes me think this fresh day is already perfect.
One for me, one for the bowl. One for the bowl, one for me. My fingers, stained purple by the berry's ripeness run nimbly past the gauntlet of thorns. I have soon gathered a bountiful bowl of blackberries. Breakfast on the Pilchuck is a blessing.
