We picked raspberries on the family farm (though my mum scared the daylights out of us by telling us that’s where the snakes lived…). Nana made the most amazing raspberry jam. She had a long dark pantry full of spiders where all of her bottled fruit and veggies were stored. And jams and pickles. We loved carving a massive slice of bread, toasting it on a fork in the wood stove, and slathering it with the jam, or some of the bottled tomatoes. Yum! She made great scones too…. fresh out of the oven as soon as we walked in the door!
🍓 😋 Once I went for dinner at a swishy restaurant and was served white strawberries (may have been alpine or pineberry variety?) and they were so divine. I found some seeds and purchased them to grow one day. Have you ever tried them? I shall put some seeds away for you. X
Long time ago now, I didn't understand why some people or family friends would say: "What an unusual child" I asked my mum why, what did they mean. There you go, i liked nearly all berries but I really liked and still do 'gloginje' ( crataegus oxyacantha), 'trnjine' (primus spinosa), 'drenjine' (cornus mas). Sauces and syrups that mum made were amazing, not only in taste and flavour, but colour, smell, depth. These lovely berries would orient me in seasons. Stop it, I am emotional realising theirs significants in my early life. I also called forest or wild strawberries their sister because they fit in numbers and nicely in a child's hand. Thanks for this post and gentle heart 'massage', love it.
Ah Ranka, I know that prunus as “sloe” and I wish my grandmother were still here to tell me the Latvian name… your mention took me to an abandoned railway embankment in Cambridgeshire, not too far from the village of Shudy Camps, and a rainy afternoon gathering these modest plums followed by a happy evening pricking them and stuffing them into gin bottles while we sipped the potion that had been put up the previous year.
My thoughts of berries remind me of picking wild blackberries along a section of Front Street here in one of your favorite places a quarter of a century ago. It’s still technically a street, but has decades ago succumbed to weeds, which someone (not the city, ha, ha, so perhaps the public railroad or utility?) keeps somewhat cleared enough for walking dogs. It seemed to be a secret patch, as there was always enough for us (including a 75 lb. Catahoula/Labrador mix who would stick her front half into the brambles and eat until pulled away) and all the other wild creatures who live in that urban wilderness.
My father had a saying that he repeated every year the first time we ate strawberries. (This was back in the day when you could only get them in season.) "Doubtless God could have made a better berry than the strawberry, but doubtless God never did."
That said, my taste now runs to raspberries and the marionberries that grow here in Oregon.
I’m a sucker for any freshly gathered garden or wild berry … now off to ask Granny Google for a picture of marionberries, yet another natural wonder that is new to me !
Blackberries. They grew wild and abundantly beside the creek that edged the cow pastures. I was never allowed to go alone, as one person beat the ground for snakes as the other picked, though our Weimaraner Heidi did count as a person in those days. My grandmother would then make the most wonderful jam that would show up again in my birthday cake in winter. I used to think the snakes ate blackberries and were our competition before much later learning there was an intermediary that the snakes were much more interested in!
When I was 18, I moved to Ontario Canada from California. I married there, my husband‘s family and extended family were all farmers. I had never experienced the farm life. His aunt did not even have indoor plumbing at that time. I loved being on the farm. I loved the garden. Yes, the strawberries in spring. However the best strawberries were the wild ones that the farmers called cows tits. The flavor was amazing. They were tiny but more flavorful than any strawberry from the garden. Thank you for your writing India I had not thought of those tiny red berries that were a burst of flavor for many years.❤️❤️❤️
Now there’s a name for wild strawberries I hadn’t heard yet!
the house I lived in back in the late eighties didn’t have indoor plumbing other than cold water to the kitchen sink. It was heated on the wood stove for washing dishes and personal ablutions. The toilet (a “long drop”) was twenty yards from the house and at night it was essential to take a torch to ensure avoiding the snakes that were out on the hunt for mice…
Strawberries! So many memories, mostly of my mother stopping at roadside stands when this area was rural, then eating them in the car on the way home. She would wrap me in one of the multiple tea towels that seemed to just be always available wherever my mother was, In a valiant effort to keep my blouse sans juice. It was a useless effort, but an essential part of the ritual. Our tea towels had multiple stains, all replete with story.
I’m picturing a wall of stained tea towels …that could read as code! Thank you for that story, Linda, it reminded me that there used to be blueberry stands either side of the border crossing between Vermont and Quebec where we’d get berries on the way to visiting my grandparents in Montreal. Back then (1969) you could travel back and forth with just a cheery wave, if the douanier recognised you. How times have changed !
Love your journeys. Just returned home yesterday from holiday, on checking the vegetable garden the wild strawberries are everywhere and will hopefully produce fruit very soon. The red gooseberries are all ripe and ready for picking. I live in the north of England near Appleby so things take a little longer to ripen here. 💙
I always say « fraise des bois » too 😊 and from the wood they were when I was younger and was trying to fill a little bowl in Auvergne without eating them all 😋 I am also very fond of blueberries 💙
I also have always known them as Fraises des Bois … on a menu in Paris, and in the markets… but “sauvages” perhaps captures their hardy wandering tendencies. I really enjoyed this rabbit hole. Especially imagining your pint-sized mother leading the gentle brown cows out to pasture. I was sent from a very young age out to the chicken coop to gather eggs for breakfast on a farm in south eastern Iowa and after dinner (which was the noon meal) take the table scraps out to the barnyard for the farm cats. Thanks for sharing your memories.
India you've set me off on a tangent. The brilliant 'Wild Berries' by Yevteshenko. Transplanted the raspberries into an enclosure this year. It's time to give those absolute murdering lunatics the raspberry.
I’ve never heard of them!
We picked raspberries on the family farm (though my mum scared the daylights out of us by telling us that’s where the snakes lived…). Nana made the most amazing raspberry jam. She had a long dark pantry full of spiders where all of her bottled fruit and veggies were stored. And jams and pickles. We loved carving a massive slice of bread, toasting it on a fork in the wood stove, and slathering it with the jam, or some of the bottled tomatoes. Yum! She made great scones too…. fresh out of the oven as soon as we walked in the door!
The good old days, when Nanas were the sort they write about in storybooks these days !
🍓 😋 Once I went for dinner at a swishy restaurant and was served white strawberries (may have been alpine or pineberry variety?) and they were so divine. I found some seeds and purchased them to grow one day. Have you ever tried them? I shall put some seeds away for you. X
I’ve never tried white ones! Thank you
.....and the beautiful book
With a strawberry-leaf print !
Long time ago now, I didn't understand why some people or family friends would say: "What an unusual child" I asked my mum why, what did they mean. There you go, i liked nearly all berries but I really liked and still do 'gloginje' ( crataegus oxyacantha), 'trnjine' (primus spinosa), 'drenjine' (cornus mas). Sauces and syrups that mum made were amazing, not only in taste and flavour, but colour, smell, depth. These lovely berries would orient me in seasons. Stop it, I am emotional realising theirs significants in my early life. I also called forest or wild strawberries their sister because they fit in numbers and nicely in a child's hand. Thanks for this post and gentle heart 'massage', love it.
Ah Ranka, I know that prunus as “sloe” and I wish my grandmother were still here to tell me the Latvian name… your mention took me to an abandoned railway embankment in Cambridgeshire, not too far from the village of Shudy Camps, and a rainy afternoon gathering these modest plums followed by a happy evening pricking them and stuffing them into gin bottles while we sipped the potion that had been put up the previous year.
Of course my lot would do the same, and as an adult I enjoy “sip or two”. Lovely memories
My thoughts of berries remind me of picking wild blackberries along a section of Front Street here in one of your favorite places a quarter of a century ago. It’s still technically a street, but has decades ago succumbed to weeds, which someone (not the city, ha, ha, so perhaps the public railroad or utility?) keeps somewhat cleared enough for walking dogs. It seemed to be a secret patch, as there was always enough for us (including a 75 lb. Catahoula/Labrador mix who would stick her front half into the brambles and eat until pulled away) and all the other wild creatures who live in that urban wilderness.
Gosh I miss New Orleans. And isn’t it fabulous to be privy to a secret green patch in a city (especially that one).
My father had a saying that he repeated every year the first time we ate strawberries. (This was back in the day when you could only get them in season.) "Doubtless God could have made a better berry than the strawberry, but doubtless God never did."
That said, my taste now runs to raspberries and the marionberries that grow here in Oregon.
I’m a sucker for any freshly gathered garden or wild berry … now off to ask Granny Google for a picture of marionberries, yet another natural wonder that is new to me !
(and I like your father’s pronouncement)
I think they only grow in the Pacific Northwest but I could be wrong. Like blackberries, but better!
Blackberries. They grew wild and abundantly beside the creek that edged the cow pastures. I was never allowed to go alone, as one person beat the ground for snakes as the other picked, though our Weimaraner Heidi did count as a person in those days. My grandmother would then make the most wonderful jam that would show up again in my birthday cake in winter. I used to think the snakes ate blackberries and were our competition before much later learning there was an intermediary that the snakes were much more interested in!
I’m wondering about the snakes…in Australia they are as keen to get out of our way as we are to stay out of theirs !
When I was 18, I moved to Ontario Canada from California. I married there, my husband‘s family and extended family were all farmers. I had never experienced the farm life. His aunt did not even have indoor plumbing at that time. I loved being on the farm. I loved the garden. Yes, the strawberries in spring. However the best strawberries were the wild ones that the farmers called cows tits. The flavor was amazing. They were tiny but more flavorful than any strawberry from the garden. Thank you for your writing India I had not thought of those tiny red berries that were a burst of flavor for many years.❤️❤️❤️
Now there’s a name for wild strawberries I hadn’t heard yet!
the house I lived in back in the late eighties didn’t have indoor plumbing other than cold water to the kitchen sink. It was heated on the wood stove for washing dishes and personal ablutions. The toilet (a “long drop”) was twenty yards from the house and at night it was essential to take a torch to ensure avoiding the snakes that were out on the hunt for mice…
Strawberries! So many memories, mostly of my mother stopping at roadside stands when this area was rural, then eating them in the car on the way home. She would wrap me in one of the multiple tea towels that seemed to just be always available wherever my mother was, In a valiant effort to keep my blouse sans juice. It was a useless effort, but an essential part of the ritual. Our tea towels had multiple stains, all replete with story.
I’m picturing a wall of stained tea towels …that could read as code! Thank you for that story, Linda, it reminded me that there used to be blueberry stands either side of the border crossing between Vermont and Quebec where we’d get berries on the way to visiting my grandparents in Montreal. Back then (1969) you could travel back and forth with just a cheery wave, if the douanier recognised you. How times have changed !
A sort of mother-daughter code. I like that. Yes, too much change for me.
Love your journeys. Just returned home yesterday from holiday, on checking the vegetable garden the wild strawberries are everywhere and will hopefully produce fruit very soon. The red gooseberries are all ripe and ready for picking. I live in the north of England near Appleby so things take a little longer to ripen here. 💙
Your garden sounds like my notion of paradise!!
I always say « fraise des bois » too 😊 and from the wood they were when I was younger and was trying to fill a little bowl in Auvergne without eating them all 😋 I am also very fond of blueberries 💙
I nearly rambled on about other berries too but then I decided to save it…
I also have always known them as Fraises des Bois … on a menu in Paris, and in the markets… but “sauvages” perhaps captures their hardy wandering tendencies. I really enjoyed this rabbit hole. Especially imagining your pint-sized mother leading the gentle brown cows out to pasture. I was sent from a very young age out to the chicken coop to gather eggs for breakfast on a farm in south eastern Iowa and after dinner (which was the noon meal) take the table scraps out to the barnyard for the farm cats. Thanks for sharing your memories.
I’m fairly confident my nomenclature is correct , too.
And egg gathering is one of the most satisfying tasks for the young, I think
India you've set me off on a tangent. The brilliant 'Wild Berries' by Yevteshenko. Transplanted the raspberries into an enclosure this year. It's time to give those absolute murdering lunatics the raspberry.
Ha. Exactly.