An ode to raspberries and summer sweetness
Part of me can’t believe it is already July. June was a slowdown of the cosmic whirlwind that the past six months have been for me and my fiancé. At the end of June, we went raspberry picking at Beasley Orchard, a U-pick orchard west of Indianapolis, in Danville. It was a hot, sunny day with not as many clouds as there should have been. I forgot my sunscreen, so in an effort not to get burnt (which still happened) I wore a long brown cardigan and sweated profusely. Still, it was joy peaking through the break bush leaves to find the crimson jury raspberries. There were rows and rows of bushes, and the raspberries were like bright stars, shining in the sunlight, waiting for their turn to ripen.
You know a raspberry is ripe when it falls off into your hand, staining your fingertips red. When they are a pail pink or you have to tug at them to remove the core, it isn’t their time just yet. They need to stay on the vine to mature and develop their flavor.
When you get started picking raspberries in the hot sun, it becomes addictive. According to my co-worker, who also loves to pick berries in the summer, there are two types of berry pickers, those who pick selectively and those who clear the whole vine. The latter is when you go down the row and pick the raspberries that look best to you, the gems, the perfect little beauties. When you clear the whole vine, you get every last berry that is ripe, turning over leaves to find the hidden ones so no one gets left behind.
I like to clear the whole vine. I can get obsessive about it. I want to get every last raspberry in my field of vision, the little gems and the imperfect ones alike. I don’t want to leave a leaf unturned or a raspberry left to over-ripen and fall to the ground to get trampled on.
Along with C and I, there was a brother and sister duo with an adult (maybe mom, babysitter, aunt?) the next row over. The sister was probably six or seven years old, and her brother probably three or four. The sister was getting hot and wanted to head back inside, out of the fields. But her bother waddled behind, stopping at every berry that caught his eyes. He curiously kept looking under each leaf, his small stature looking up at the large pants with red berries “Just one more,” he’d say. “Just one more.” I felt that way too, even as I was hot and sweating, I knew I was still getting burnt without my sunscreen. “Just one more,” I thought, as I reached over the vines to catch the ones that made their way into my view.
“Just one more”, as I found another one nestled beside it, imperfect but full of tart, savory juices, “just one more.” As we were leaving the patch of berry bushes and I spotted one out of the corner of my eye, picking it, and the piping it into my mouth.
We left Beasleys with a basket full of red raspberries, juice on our lips, a sunburn, and an afternoon spent well in the fields.
A week after picking red raspberries berries, I took time during a rainy afternoon to make raspberry jam. I haven’t made raspberry jam since I was a kid, so I had to use a combination of Google and a book on preserving to get by. You start by combining about 5 cups of raspberries, 400 grams of sugar, juice of one lemon, and a smidge of lemon zest into a pot and let it boil for about 8-10 minutes. The sugar immediately brought the juices crawling out of the berries. Soon it was a pulpy, seedy puddle at the bottom of the saucepan. The smell was heavenly, like God came down to my kitchen and blessed me with her presents of sweet, juicy, jam.
After the 10 minutes of letting the berries and sugar simmer, I spooned out a bit of the jam onto a plate I had placed in the freezer. A recipe on Google said to let the hot jam sit on the frozen plate for about 30-40 seconds. Then, taking your finger through the concotion, if it wrinkles just slightly, it’s finished. I had to cook mine for a good. 3-4 minites longer until it wrinked.
Once the mixtures jamified (it’s not a word but I’m making it one), then into the little half quart quilted ball glasses it went. Now they sit on my counter to rest.
A week ago, my brother and I went black raspberry picking at Duck Creek Gardens. Instead of picking these berries when they are bright red, you wait for them to turn a deep purple and firm. There are a few other difference I noticed between red raspberries and black raspberries. The first difference is that the black raspberry bushes were thorny. We probably should have brought gloves, as we reached for the purple gems the thorns started your arms, elbows, and fingers. The second difference is that the black raspberries were sweeter than the red raspberries. The red berries leave your mouth in a pucker, and the black berries melt in your mouth and leave a coat of sweetness.
It lightly rained while we were between the thorny bushes. Are fingers stained purpled and arms red from getting poked by thorns. I looked up at the sky to see the blue sky shinning through small rain clouds overhead. I’m sure there was a rainbow somewhere if you looked closely enough. The rain was warm and refreshing after being out in the heat. I made me want to give up my life in corporate America for good, move out to the country, and cultivate a berry farm so I could be out in nature elements with berry stained fingers all day. We were out in the field for about an hour but you couldn’t tell. Even though my bucket was full, it was hard not to say “just one more” as we walked through the fields and back to the barn.
Back home in my kitchen, I made more jam with the black raspberries. Instead of being quiet as tart, the jam is sweet with a deeply rich flavor. You only need a tad on your fingertip or a slice of sourdough bread to stratify a craving.
The next berry I want to pick this month is blackberries. I can’t wait to get back between the rows and rows of berries that are just waiting to be found and enjoyed. When I’m out in a field, the energy is calm and smooth. It is easier to be present without a cell signal. Even when it’s hot and muggy, the quietness that comes with the slow growth and fruit of nature is something I couldn’t never get tired of. Its soul soothing, and at the end of it all, you come out on the other side with a bucket brimming with the sweet fruit of your labor that you can take home and savor for the rest of the week.