Kakahead

Here it is, almost August already, which in Michigan means that summer is on its way out.  This makes me cry in my noodles, because although I have Norwegian blood in my toenails, I love summer time!! I’d rather sweat than shiver any day of the week.  And these days, that means I can live outside and get mosquito bites so I can have the West Nile virus.   Isn’t that nice?  I’ve always wanted to visit Egypt…

Anyway, Michigan summers also mean there’s a lot of free food to be had in the woods and fields, and yes, even on the roadsides.  And no, by free food on the roadsides I don’t mean that I encourage people to steal from roadside veggie stands.  I’m talking about all the fruits and wild foods that sprout up around these parts.  Right now, the blackberries and dewberries are peaking out… and man are they yummy.

I’m amazed at how many people miss them.  Dunno about you, but when I go for walks, I keep my eyes peeled for snacks.  That’s because I’m a food addict and I really love to eat.  Once in awhile I find a half eaten McBarf burger or maybe half a bag of fries that someone kindly tossed out the car window.  I generally do not eat those.  Ok, I never eat those.  But I have become pretty good at locating the berry patches and fruit trees that live around these parts, and I make it a point to check on them occasionally to see what’s cooking.  Strawberries are usually first, but there usually aren’t too many of those in the wild.  Then come the black raspberries, then the red and yellow (yellow??  Yes, there are yellow ones too…) raspberries, and then the blueberries, and right now, as I said the blackberries.

The only problem with blackberry hunting is this:  if you hunt for blackberries in earnest, you’re gonna get stabbed.  Pretty much no likelihood that you’ll get away with no owies, unless of course you don’t want very many berries.  So there I was on Tuesday, after dropping off our “almost a niece” Besan at Uncle Mike’s house.  Since Besan was at Grand Valley and needed a ride from Grand Rapids to Montague, I happily volunteered to pick her up on my way home from work.  My “fee” was paid in the form of a big plastic yogurt  bucket.  So after I left Uncle Mike’s, there I was in my favorite “secret” blackberry patch; wearing my business-casual work clothes that I fondly refer to as my “uniform.”  As I climbed into the patch I commenced to getting stabbed and having my britches tugged on by blackberry vines.

I was in heaven.

I got about almost two quarts in a little less than an hour, but of course some of that time was spent traipsing about and munching.   The patch has an old railroad trestle that’s been converted into a bike trail bridge.  During a previous excursion, cyclists passed overhead and I heard one of them yell to his cohorts, “hey!  There’s a troll under the bridge!!”   I shouted back, “yes, and if you get too near me, I’ll eat you!!”  They chuckled, but didn’t stop.  Chickens!!

Berry picking just plain makes sense.  You get outside, free and very healthy snacks go ploonk in your pickin’ bucket, and (in spite of a few pokey-ouches) and for this berry picker at least, it sets the mind free for meditation.  When I’m out in one of my favorite patches, my mind is focused on just one task:  picking.  That gives my brain a much needed rest, and allows me to revisit the past when my Dad used to take advantage of our small size and send us into the thickets to get the big ones.  Of course, Dad was always so intent on making jelly every time he heard there were berries ripe.  So being the fine kids we were, the four of us soon learned that if we didn’t want to spend a whole day or two picking and cleaning wild fruits, we might just forget to tell Dad that we found any.

And as I said earlier, I’m often astounded at the lack of knowledge out there about these natural candies.   For example, I’ll offer friends and neighbors some berries.  Some dig in, and others say, “what the heck are those??”  Then I tell them, and they might ask something like, “are those washed??”  “Well, Mother Nature washes them every time it rains…”  After a few careful peeks into the bucket, several folks have shrugged and said, “no thanks.”

There’s only one logical response in that situation.  I tell them, “that’s ok, that’s more for me!”

And now for something completely different… those of you who remember Carmen Miranda… here’s a happy surprise. Those of you who have never heard of Carmen Miranda, here’s a happy surprise!