My fingers are stained, my arms scratched. But I don't give a fig. I'm on the hunt for blackberries, and they're every-freaking-where around here.
I've picked them at Seward Park, near the foot ferry dock in West Seattle, on Magnolia, near my father-in-law's place in Shoreline. Most of them go straight into my mouth, and I've been meaning to come back with a bucket, but haven't. Until today.
Talked Baby Girl into helping me out, but she lost interest after her Chuck Taylors got muddied. Hey, kid. This is a messy enterprise, but if you want a piece of the pie I'm going to (attempt) making. Well. Then.
All the best, biggest berries were just out of reach down the road to the secret beach in Magnolia this afternoon, and the puny ones I picked were none too sweet. Where should I go for a big blackberry score. Tell me true and I promise to get you a piece of that pie.
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