Praise the Blackberry

Food Narrative, Essay 1

That luscious, savory blackberry dangles there on the thorny bush waiting to drop. It grows juicer, plumper, and darker by the minute. And then, it peaks as a grown mature blackberry. Oh that blackberry, how tasty it would be in my mouth. I can only imagine the juice sliding down my throat, and my stomach thanking me for the fabulous treat. I crave it. I would go great lengths just to have a taste of this blackberry. The obstacles and barriers I would encounter just to reach that one deliciously plump blackberry. Thorns stabbing my legs, sweating beading down my back, and bugs irritating my face are all the things I am willing to sacrifice just to pick that blackberry. The blackberry has this barrier of thorns and leaves around it protecting it from harm, but I, if anyone, will reach that blackberry. The guard around the berry makes the obstacle more appealing. It makes the berry more valuable and precious. The reward of tasting this blackberry is my motivation. Finally, I grasp the berry and contain it. The taste I know will be unforgettable. The juices when that blackberry touches my tongue will satisfy my taste buds, and impulses will be sent to my brain giving me the sense and feeling of enjoyment and happiness. All because of this blackberry I will be in heaven.

The very end of June right into July is the perfect season when blackberries are the ripest. This is the time when my father and I head out for our picking excursion. It is tradition for us every summer to go to the trails around dawn, coolest time of the day, and scrounge for blackberries. Today, we are going clothed in dilapidated jeans and faded t-shirts equipped with a belt holding our bucket. We hike to the paved and unpaved trails behind my house and start our adventure. My father begins on one side of the trail, and I begin on the other. Both of us look back and watch out for each other just in case we get engulfed by the prickly bush. Looking for the best blackberries is our mission. I contort my body to fit over and under the thorny branches. I maneuver my legs and arms perfectly to avoid the stabbing branches of the blackberry bushes. I also stretch my arm out like a rubber band man to reach for the perfectly arranged cluster of blackberries. My father and I are always in a competition when it comes to the size of the blackberries, and today is the day I will win. Every time we pick a large plump blackberry we say, “Look at this one, probably the biggest one yet!” I, of course, say that line more than my dad considering I pick the largest berries. Pretty much we are dorks when it comes to blackberry picking, but we like to think we are the master pickers, the professionals. In my eyes we are professionals, because dressed in the ridiculous attire we have on and perspiration forming on our faces definitely qualifies us for the job. Afraid of dropping the berries, we take extreme caution by always using two hands. The supply of blackberries is not all that abundant, so each berry is of great value. We do not want to risk any berries. We spend hours out here in the terrain filling our buckets full. My father and I keep on gathering berries until it is too dark to see where we were stepping. At the end of the day all the bushes, which were colored beautifully black, are now green with a hint of red (blackberries that are not quite ripe are red), because all the treasures that were once on them are in my father and I’s bucket. After a successful mission we finally walk back to the house gloating over the number of berries we have collected. Smiles on our faces and our clothes covered in stained blackberry juice accompany us on the way back home. My mother waits patiently in the kitchen prepared to wash the berries for further eating. I have the honors of always eating the first and largest berry. The taste I have been waiting for all night. At last, I get my reward.

These summer nights are the most memorable for me. All year long I wait for this week in the summer when the blackberries are ripe, so I can protectively dress myself and scrounge for these lavish blackberries. It may seem like labor to everyone else to go out in the blistering heat to collect food, but nothing beats this feeling of victory when all the thorny bushes are attacked and wiped clean of their treasure. I mean it is not easy at all to pick the blackberries, but the adventure and competition of berry gathering truly out weighs the physical aspect of it. Holding this full bucket is a perfect sight and makes me forget all about how awful I look or smell. It gives me a sense of accomplishment. These little blackberries hold my happiness and victory. Wow, I beat my father in the blackberry competition, and my stomach is pleased with a delicious treat. Today is a good day.

I must say if a blackberry were not an inanimate object, a piece of food, and contained a conscious I would thank it. Honestly I would. Food deserves our upmost appreciation. For one thing it keeps us alive, our survival relies on the consumption of food, but also it supplies us with a sense of satisfaction. For some people food is a comfort, a culture, or a tradition. For me food holds memories. Every piece has a story. The blackberry gives me a memory of an adventure like the one I had today. It holds my contentment and appreciation. It is my remembrance. My remembrance of these summer nights spent with my father gathering berries. I praise the blackberry. I will always admire the berry for its scrumptious taste and memories. Thank you so much blackberry.