I’ve been meaning not to get a Blackberry and I haven’t. What I have got are bowls and bags of brambles freshly collected from as far afield as 200 metres from my front door. I’m neither a hunter nor much of a gatherer and I only noticed the clumps of ripe glossy berries, hanging like Bulgari pendant ear rings from Mother Nature’s spiky lobes, whilst trying to get a picture of sunflowers in the field beyond the brambles. The berries that I picked do not have the sculptural magnificence of the shop bought variety which look as though they might have been cast in acrylic as maquettes for a Jeff Koons fruity sculpture. The blackberries that I have, althoughI have been advised that they should be called brambles, are compact, varied in shape and size, bereft of cosmetic improvements and packed, with intense flavour making each one like a tiny pot of perfect jam. I crushed some with icing sugar and stirred in a gob of creme fraiche. This violet softness travels under the name of fool and I rushed in, pushing past the fearful angels as I went
About Food,Photography & FrancePhotographer and film maker living in France. After a long career in London, my wife and I have settled in the Vendee, where we run residential digital photography courses with a strong gastronomic flavour.
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