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Posted by Callipygous (Member # 2071) on September 09, 2004, 02:18:
 
I love this time of year. Lovely tomatoes, blackberries, plums, damsons, and sloes. Crisp fresh mornings, the last of the warm weather, and in the evening maybe a stroll to have some Tapas & Sangria on the seafront.
 
Posted by Alephcat (Member # 2617) on September 09, 2004, 03:24:
 
yeah, I love it too, unfortunately the blackberry season up here was fairly early this year, and the damsons are comming to the end, but we got loads of jam out of them
 
Posted by Allan (Member # 1717) on September 09, 2004, 04:49:
 
mmmm.... bramley apple & blackberry crumble with custard. [Smile]

'Blackberry-picking'

Late August, given heavy rain and sun
For a full week, the blackberries would ripen.
At first, just one, a glossy purple clot
Among others, red, green, hard as a knot.
You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet
Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it
Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for
Picking. Then red ones inked up and that hunger
Sent us out with milk cans, pea tins, jam-pots
Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots.
Round hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills
We trekked and picked until the cans were full
Until the tinkling bottom had been covered
With green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned
Like a plate of eyes. Our hands were peppered
With thorn pricks, our palms sticky as Bluebeard's.
We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre.
But when the bath was filled we found a fur,
A rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache.
The juice was stinking too. Once off the bush
The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour.
I always felt like crying. It wasn't fair
That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot.
Each year I hoped they'd keep, knew they would not.

-- Seamus Heaney
 
Posted by Alephcat (Member # 2617) on September 09, 2004, 05:24:
 
quote:
Originally posted by Allan:
mmmm.... bramley apple & blackberry crumble with custard. [Smile]

'Blackberry-picking'

Late August, given heavy rain and sun
For a full week, the blackberries would ripen.
At first, just one, a glossy purple clot
Among others, red, green, hard as a knot.
You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet
Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it
Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for
Picking. Then red ones inked up and that hunger
Sent us out with milk cans, pea tins, jam-pots
Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots.
Round hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills
We trekked and picked until the cans were full
Until the tinkling bottom had been covered
With green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned
Like a plate of eyes. Our hands were peppered
With thorn pricks, our palms sticky as Bluebeard's.
We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre.
But when the bath was filled we found a fur,
A rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache.
The juice was stinking too. Once off the bush
The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour.
I always felt like crying. It wasn't fair
That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot.
Each year I hoped they'd keep, knew they would not.

-- Seamus Heaney

sounds like he needed to make jam out of them to me
 


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