One hot day last summer, a long limbed son and a much shorter son went blackberrying up through the grass.  They came back with bowls and pans and buckets of juicy plump Himalayan blackberries.  Some we ate sprinkled over cereal and ice cream. Some were made into jam (but not enough.) And some were baked into pies then and there.  They sat steaming on the counter to cool while stars came out and dishes were washed.  A few were measured and bagged and frozen and marked for special occasion pies throughout the winter.

Today, on the last cool day of this summer not long before a new batches of berries are ready to be picked, we opened the last bag of last summer’s memories and measured in sugar, Myer’s lemon juice and a portion of organic local flour.  My oldest son, the one that loves pies but hates berry picking, rolled out pie dough made from the Tassajara recipe with whole wheat and tucked  the berries between thin rounds of delicate pastry.  He pricked out a wedge of cherry birthday cake until rich red juices spurted through the holes.   ” ‘Cause cake on a pie is witty,” he said. “And makes it sweeter,” I added to myself.

Tonight, we ate homemade stew and salad.  Then the much shorter son cut out the first piece of pie.  Rich dark red slabs after rich dark red slabs disappeared until half the pie is gone.

…Right about now I’m realizing that the long limbed son who moved out on his own nearly missed out on the last of the berries…

Better invite him to have one of the those leftover slices for breakfast.