Every day the kids ask to pick blackberries. The streets in our neighbourhood are lined with the wild prickly bushes.
Even when we drive on the freeway, Leif points them out and asks if we can stop to pick them. Not sure why you'd want to pick at the side of the highway with cars whizzing by when we can pick in our own quiet neighbourhood with cliff faces on one side of the road and a drop-off to Indian Arm on the other.
I have great memories of picking blackberries growing up in Burnaby. When I see the branches snagging my kids' shirts, their fingers stained purple and their feet soaked from tramping in wet bushes, it reminds me of being eight in August and riding my bike down the alley with an ice cream bucket on the handlebars.
We made two blackberry pies on Monday, and a day later we were already finishing the second one off. But the minute I need more berries, there will be six little hands eager to pick them.