Don’t worry, I washed them again. And yes, that is a lone potato.
In most of my author bios, I say I am a “worker on my family’s fledgling farm” in the Pacific Northwest. You know, it’s just one of those lines you add to a bio so a stranger can pull together some sort of impression of who-I-am. Sometimes I wonder if that sentence conjures up an incorrect picture in someone’s mind. Maybe they imagine me waking up at the break of dawn, milking the cows and feeding the chickens. (Add a huge mug of coffee into that picture…now it’s getting a teensy bit more plausible.)
In truth, I love “working” on love our little farm/ranch in the mountains. Yes, you have to work harder for those garden vegetables. But as I stood, scrubbing the dirt off these carrots, I reflected at how I so quickly rinse a carrot I would get from the grocery store. These carrots I helped plant, water and pull from the earth…I should be scrubbing those darn grocery store carrots, not these.
Sorry, back to the food – see Blackberry Cobbler below.
Our family picked these Blackberries from the many, many, many, many, many (did I mention, many?) bushes that grow around our house. They are fickle little stinkers, those Blackberry bushes. First, in the spring, they call you to them with their sweet little white flowers.
Come closer….we won’t hurt you, human…. *insert huge, killer thorn hidden in the darkness*
Then, when the heat picks up, those flowers turn into beautiful, luscious berries. That’s when the real siren song kicks in. They become towers of fruit, all ripe at the same time, beckoning to you. You begin to dream of Blackberry jam or drizzle or….cobbler.
If I can just reach…right there…that’s a great berry, I wonder why no one ever…. *insert huge, killer thorn hidden in the darkness*
If you’re from the Pacific NW, you know exactly what I’m talking about.
Oh, you should be…
BRB…gonna go to the kitchen. Oh, no reason.