I confess: I don’t actually mind picking raspberries even though I pretend that is it a huge ordeal (It is.). That it takes a really long time. (It does.) And that I have tons of other pressing things to do. (I do.)
If you happen to be listening to a good book on Audible, and the sun is shining… really: how bad can it be?
(I don’t really want Dave to know this, so please don’t tell him. It works in my favor to have this to hang over his head for those Sundays that he is forced to dust.)
So, it is raspberry time of year again. Mine ripen in the fall. Most others seem to have them in the summer, but I like fall berries. That way, I don’t curse (as much) when I’m making jam and heating up the house with my stove and boiling water for canning. I cannot imagine having to do that in July and August.
We’ve had fresh berries for well over a month now, but it is just today that I’m filling up my picking basket that holds about 16 cups.
I remember when my kids would eat four cups of berries in a single sitting. They don’t eat them as much anymore. They OD’d I guess. So most go into jam.
If you live nearby, the offer stands: come on over and pick some. Just don’t complain when you find you are not alone:
(He’s big, by the way. Maybe an inch and a half long in the body alone!)
And my favorite, who hopped away before I could get a better picture:
OK, OK. I gotta go work now. Cuz Lord knows I’ll be picking more raspberries in another 2 days.