Raspberry

Raspberry, the word can evoke images of a Bronx cheer, a bright-red variety of soda-pop or a small, delicate fruit with a subtle taste that some feel is akin to heaven on earth. My first experience with this fruit was nowhere so divine. The raspberries available from the store were small, dry and somewhat mealy in texture. For me the raspberry closest to my heart remained blowing air through tongue and lips while flapping my hands at the side of my head. Until last week.

I was in the woods looking for places where the guinea hens might be laying their eggs. There was a pod of guineas in a thicket making a hellacious racket. "Aha," I thought, "The guineas give up their secret!" As I approached to see if there might be an egg or two present, a young fawn, still wearing it's spotted vest, burst forth from the patch to hide deeper into the woods. I waded into the thicket. I found not eggs but berry vines with little, black fruits. I knew right off that these were raspberries. The wild raspberry vines have a chalky appearance and with black-colored berries these had to be black-cap raspberries.

I plucked one off and popped it into my mouth, not expecting too much. A surprising burst of flavor exploded into my mouth! It was unlike any raspberry I had tasted before. With a little thought I recalled a suspected patch down by the driveway and another one just off of the road. I proceeded to investigate these sightings and strip them of their treasures. The small plunder was baked in a cake that evening.

A few days later, I was sure there had to be more patches down by the branch. So I waded through the 5-foot tall grass that grows in the bottoms to the edge of the branch to investigate. There were two more, larger patches. That day I had brought a larger container and picked a quart of berries making note of the numerous berries that would be ripe in just a few more days.

When the additional days had passed, I set out once again to stalk the illusive wild raspberry. This time bringing two of the larger containers. I was confident about my resources and knew there were more patches awaiting discovery... I mowed a narrow path through the ocean of grass in hopes of accumulating fewer ticks and proceeded to harvest berries from my two latest discoveries. This filled one container half way. I pressed into the tangle of growth around the branch seeking more patches. I found one, and then another. The container was filling up. A third patch gave up the secret of it�s location. Then I stumbled upon a forth small patch. I harvested from the edges and then stepped into it to pick some more... I tasted a few of the plump berries and discovered that these were the finest quality berries yet! I looked around and realized that this patch was also the largest yet! I had discovered the Mother-Of-All-Raspberry-Patches! The El Dorado of berries!

Picking berries in such a fashion is a rigorous occupation. Quality control is of utmost importance. If this requires 'testing' one out of every five berries to insure the highest standards, than so be it! The berries of this patch were thoroughly tested... The container filled quickly and I went back to fetch the second. These berries were out of this world!

As I picked, I thought about bears and how they willl live on berries and roots to fatten up during the summer. I could see why one would need claws and fangs to defend a prized patch such as this one. I was able to harvest these berries by the handful and began testing them by the handful. Quench my thirst with berries? Sure, why not! I could feel fangs and claws growing as I foraged on. Handful after handful of the black, succulent treasures disappeared down my maw. I began to growl and a thick mat of hair began covering my forearms. An insatiable urge to eat, fatten, then sleep came over me. As I lost all awareness of picking berries to put in any container other than my mouth and belly, voracious with the hunger of the upcoming Winter. I paused and looked up to see a small treefrog sitting on a leaf watching my ursine repast with a look of amusement. I stopped. My claws, fangs and fur receded whence they came. Once more I was a human, purple stains around my mouth, picking raspberries and putting them in the basket that I was using to carry them.

I continued picking... and testing... I wondered about the perfect raspberry. What qualities would it have? Was this one it? No? How about that one? Is there only one perfect raspberry? Could I get a whole bowl full of them? What would that be like? One berry after the other, perfectly ripe, plump and flavorful... Each one like the last.... Is that perfection? It seems that part of the cult of perfection is the aura of exclusiveness. If I have the perfect [whatever] then you don�t.

One hears stories about people who go in search of the perfect Zinfandel or the perfect this or that. What if you had just poured a glass of the perfect wine and taken a sip... Suddenly a great, big bandersnach runs in and bites your foot off. Is the wine still so perfect? Perhaps chemically it would be the same, but you would have to take a trip to the hospital and in the rush the bottle was left open so when you returned home the next day.... Well... No doubt you might not consider that wine in the same fashion. Thank goodness you had that gallon of MD-20 stashed in the broom closet, eh?

What if this whole perfection stuff had nothing to do with the stuff in front of you? Rather it was what you did with it. What if it was how you experienced it? Whether or not you felt it was perfect? Who better, then, to be the judge than yourself? The two thumbs up or down are attached to your own hands.

And as I mused, purple berry stains on my hands and around my mouth, I realized that, right at that very moment, perfection just might take the form of a scoop of ice cream smothered with black cap raspberries.

And it came pretty darn close.