Berry-licious

A drive along narrow, winding mountain roads canopied by trees lining a chuckling creek leads to a hidden treasure - Mountain Mist Farms, home to acres of fat juicy (thornless!) blackberries, cultivated in rows and mowed for easy picking. This is a berry lovers paradise!

This morning the parental units, the child, and I piled in the car for the leisurely drive to the aptly named farm where we proceeded to pick more than 15 pounds of glistening blackberries still damp with morning dew. Of course, we ate some too - just to make sure they were ready know. Actually, my son (who in all his 15 years has never been blackberry picking) said he ate as many as he picked, so it's probably a good thing that he didn't pick too many.

Sticking my hands through the tangled branches and popping sun-warmed fruit in my mouth brought back memories of picking wild berries with my mom many years ago. We used to don tall socks, heavy jeans, hats, and long-sleeved shirts in mid-summer to tromp through the brush in the countryside and protect ourselves from the many pointed thorns guarding the black treasure. We were always careful to stomp loudly and move boldly through the tall grasses and weeds alerting any of God's creatures (especially the slithering kind) that company was coming, thus avoiding unwanted confrontations. These trips also included a post-picking check for ticks and application of the appropriate ointment to any random bug bites we incurred. However, the heat and the bites were worth the jackpot of sweet blackberries with half-and-half, or ice cream, or baked into a cobbler. In my dreams of youth, summer is filled with dewy grass and sweet berries in the hazy banana cream light of morning.

After we had plucked three flats of fruit from the vines, we followed the country road back to my parents' old house and marveled at how much things had changed. Though we admired the scenery - especially the ethereal quality of the light filtering through tall trees along the road, new development and dangerous one-lane roads affirmed that they had made the right decision when moving closer to town years ago. However fun the drive down memory lane was, we were all ready to head home to hot showers and dry shoes.

After cleaning up, my parents took us to a little Italian restaurant that sports a sign proclaiming, "We have good food, but not fast food." We learned the value of truth in advertising since the service was neither good nor fast, but the food was excellent. The place seemed a bundled of contradictions: excellent food on paper plates among diner-style tables in a wing off an Exxon station. Mom had Maryland crab cakes floating in a rich cheese sauce. The cakes had only enough filler to hold them together, so they had an excellent crab flavor. Dad opted for lobster ravioli which came on a large plate with many medium-sized raviolis floating in a cheesy lobster bisque sauce. It looked excellent, though I didn't snag a bite since I had a plate of portobella mushroom ravioli of my own to contend with. My pasta pillows were large and over-stuffed with flavorful chopped mushrooms. The seasonings were enough to complement without overpowering the portobellas, which were also well-matched to the rich, creamy alfredo sauce over them. My son's choice was cheese ravioli, which also looked tender and brimming with filling. In addition, we were given knots of pizza dough rolls which were crusty outside, tender inside, and lightly coated with sea salt on top. The entire meal was delicious, but since the ambiance (complete with two kids holding the television remote control and flipping from cartoon to cartoon) left a lot to be desired, we decided we'd order this up for take out next time. I'm also hoping to try something different on my next visit, since the first two items I ordered (butternut squash ravioli and crab-filled ravioli) were sold out.

When we arrived home I felt we had come full circle with full bellies. The morning started with Paula Deen's French toast casserole and ended with my mom's sweet lazy day cobbler, which she made while I napped. I awoke this afternoon to the scent of blackberries bubbling in the oven just as I awoke this morning to the scent of coffee wafting from the kitchen. If it's true that everyone's heaven is a time and place of great happiness from life, when I die I'll wake to the scent of my mother's country kitchen.