…is a mnemonic providing a very good example of homophones whilst confirming the lack of prejudice, lexicographic or otherwise, on this blog. It came to mind when I noticed that blackberries were suddenly in profusion, not so much on the walls, but very definitely in the bushes of La Moussiere.
These wonderful looking fruit demand to be picked. I have often wondered about the attritional nature of wild berry picking to foraging pioneers over the millenia and the scattered host of corpses, with carmine stained lips and fingers, that must have littered the lanes and hedgerows as a result of their, often, fatal choices. Blackberries look too good to be true, when they are in their pomp, and I am eternally grateful to those early foragers for their daredevil efforts which allow me to safely plunder the laden bushes that surround our home.
My berry foraging is, more often than not, without true purpose. Out of the corner of my eye I may notice the glossy roundness of a fat, ripe blackberry. I’ll stop, pick it and eat it and quite a few more of them if the brambles aren’t too annoying. As I’m eating them I’ll be asking myself why I have nothing, such as a basket, in which to collect some berries to take home. Once I’ve eaten my fill, or my attention has been taken by something else, the lack of a basket becomes a positive advantage. The blackberries that arrive in my kitchen are not from my hedgerows but from the rows of fruit in the market that someone, who knows his berries far better than I, has taken the time to gather with selective care rather than spontaneous pleasure as his prime purpose. I have made blackberry and apple things and tarts and cakes and slices with blackberries but I think I enjoy them most directly from the bush or chilled and macerated in a glass of Crème de Mûre.