"I picked these raspberries on a chilly not-quite-rainy summer day." I said as my sister handed me a glass of raspberry juice as I perched on my mother's kitchen counter on Sunday. I took a sip, and the tart glowing sweetness of the fruit juice exploded in my mouth. I recalled with clarity, the cool dampness of the air, the green of the leaves, and the brightness of the berries. The vetch that was choking out parts of the far rows, and which I spent some time weeding out into mounds of the leggy vines. I left the piles at the end of the row near the garden house/cash register. I wonder what the farmhands thought when they found them.
She was making the raspberry muffins -with chocolate chips and walnuts - that she fed me this morning as I picked her to go to campus and the jewelry making studio. "And now you'll be eating them warm but not quite melting march morning."
I had dug around in my mother's freezer and found a quart bag of Raspberries I had picked the summer before this last one, at the u-pick raspberry field at
Basically Basil. And oh, my. They made amazing muffins.
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