Can it really be this time of year again? Barely have the splashes of Hedgerow Jam been wiped from the walls, it seems, than it's time to start all over again. This headlong galloping of the seasons must be a factor of advancing years, I fear.
Still, I'm not complaining. Far from it. It remains my contention that the whole blackberry-picking-jam-making thing is one of the most sensually pleasurable experiences (in the public sphere) in life. I [b]rambled on about it here at self-indulgent length last time around. Suffice to say today that blackberries were picked on Sunday, arms were scratched, legs were stung, fingers were stained purple, insects buzzed, golden autumn sunshine bathed and all was, briefly, well with the world (or at least that tiny portion of it I call my own).
Next weekend it will be jam. Yesterday's haul has gone into blackberry and apple crumbles. So that's what we'll all be eating for breakfast (yes, breakfast), lunch and tea for the rest of the week. And only one of us will be complaining about that, and it won't be me.
(How did I manage to spawn a child who doesn't like blackberries?????)