just call me Ma Ingalls

After stopping a few time on my afternoon runs to eat some enticing raspberries on the side of the road, I convinced Timmy and Charlie to go pick berries with me. Mary babysat while Julia Ellen slept and the little boys and I headed through the woods with our berry cartons. A few years ago, a developer got the idea to build houses on 40 acres next to ours and went to all the trouble of cutting down trees and putting in a short gravel road before the economy took a nosedive. Now the property is on the market and unlikely to sell due to the appearance of the land, it isn't wooded and not even close to open pasture, just a mix of spindly trees mixed with scrub. But that scrub contains a whole lot of raspberry brambles which is just perfect for us.

It was slow going, the berries were small and since Timmy is only 4 we had to listen to a constant barrage of, "When are we going back home? There are a lot of berries over here. Is this one ripe? Are we finished yet? Can I eat some of my raspberries?" I also had to keep an eye and ear out for the threat of a bear filling up on the sweet jewels, but luckily I didn't have to face down any wild creatures to protect my own little cubs.

We collected about 1/2 a pint of fruit before we got too hot, but, inspired by the offerings at the local diner, we made homemade wild raspberry muffins for dinner. Leftovers will be served for breakfast, split open and broiled with a pat of sweet butter. Yum!