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When I was a kid, living in the mountains of North Carolina we had a briar patch at the foot of our driveway, just across the street. This briar patch was a tangle of hairy raspberry vines and thorny blackberry briars.
We made expeditions along the creeks on summer days to fill our buckets with the sun warmed raspberries and blackberries that grew along the edges. Slipping and balancing on rocks as we carefully made our way along, our old shoes filling up with silty water, dust getting stirred up on the bottom like underwater tornadoes, and shimmering with flecks of mica, this is my favorite memory of a summer afternoon in childhood. One of those memories that makes childhood the idyllic dream it is far from being. The kind that you look back on as being lit with golden sunshine, while the rest of your life is taken up by florescent lights.
This memory of those picked blackberries is one of the reasons why I love looking into my refrigerator and seeing those large, purple-black, glistening berries sitting there, waiting to be eaten. I find something incredibly gorgeous about their plump blackness in a white porcelain bowl. Its simple beauty is something that strikes me every time.

For some reason I decided to make a sauce out of a few for dinner last night. I baked a floured piece of chicken and tried to make a blackberry sauce to rival the plum sauce I’d made. This was purely invention, not following a recipe of any kind, which sometimes works for me. Unfortunately this was not one of those times. Although edible it was not what I was hoping and I was very disappointed. But I have more blackberries and now I have the power of the Internet behind me and so I’m looking for a potential recipe.

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