Sometime sitting down to blog inspires me to finish lines of thinking, but right now, all I can think about is throwing on some clothes, grabbing a bucket and picking blackberries. I am inspired by a mysterious woman with a long-handled pruner and a step stool who just appeared in our backyard and had been gathering a small red fruit that she shook down from a neighbor's tree. Cherries? I wonder if she missed any.
Part 2
It may have been a perfect Sunday. After sleeping in (and grilled breakfast paninis) Dutch and I went to worship with the decidedly non-hip, non-emergent Luthies down the block. Not only did they print all the music notations to the chanting in the program, but they accompanied it to {gasp} organ music. It was comforting to know that their liturgy hadn't changed much in the last 400 years, and it was even more fanstastic to not have to sit through some white over hair-producted music leader imploring "lordjesus" and repeating "hallelujah." Right after the service we wandered over to the Park where I had spied some virgin blackberry bushes last week. We had dressed for church purposely in jeans and long-sleeved coats for berry picking. They were still there in all their prickly-branched glory, big globes of black-juiced goodness, just waiting to fall. We were there to catch them. We picked until our fingers were purple with blood and juice. Finally after extricating ourselves, we headed home, where I baked a blackberry cobbler (just following the directions on the back of the box).
Jitterbug Perfume by Tom Robbins
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