As a blogger, it is my responsibility to post annually about the picking of berries and the subsequent making of jam. Lovely photographs should be included, but they will never be as pretty as whatever designsponge has going on on this issue (good sweet corn god).
SO off we went, wearing rain boots for better thorn-stomping, to pick blackberries at this suh-weet spot along the train tracks behind a closed down fast food place and a dump full of stolen purses and blackened spoons. Squamish is so epically ghetto at certain intersections.
Blackberry bushes are like huge thorned attackers, groping at you from every side, pulling your hair, tearing at your clothes. It’s like attempted gang rape, blackberry picking is. But with my rainboots I got through it.
Several betas I learned for blackberry picking:
It’s only sweet if it falls off with a gentle pinch. Any picking force means bitter blackberries.
The best best best blackberries are the ones that are the only fat black berry in a cluster of green or barely red ones. They’ve been hogging the resources.
It’s super sad when you go to pinch one and the rustling causes an obviously more ripe one to fall into thorny oblivion.
Also, the great blackberry trail may cross private property. But since we’re not in Texas….
Here’s the haul:
Does that look like a lot? Here’s another one with some relative-size comparisonication:
We ate a bunch, froze a bunch more, kept some to eat tomorrow, then there was the jammin.