of summer and blackberry pie

Today we went blackberry picking. Violet stuffed her little round face till she had the blackberry runs so bad she pooped in the tub tonight…of course, sometimes she does that anyways.¬† As we were walking back from the park and I was carrying a bowl of blackberries I remembered one summer when I was 14.

After much begging, I had agreed to bake a blackberry pie for the neighborhood boys, which were comprised mainly of my brothers and their friends. They spent the better part of an afternoon picking berries and generally getting  covered in scratches before they had finally picked enough berries for me to make a pie big enough for all of them. It would soon all be worth it though and they congratulated each other while relaxing in the front yard while I carried out my half of the bargain. I had promised them a syrupy, hot, berry pie complete with a golden, flaky crust and wonderful bits of berry oozing out the sides.

That is not what I delivered.

Alas, I grabbed the baking soda instead of the cornstarch. (they were in the same type of container. Instead of turning to blackberry syrup, it immediately became a foul-smelling gruel with a grayish cast.

The End.

that’s right, thats really the end. They were very very very mad at me for quite a long time. Partly also because they had completely picked all the blackberries on the block for the pie, so even if I had wanted to i couldn’t have made it right.

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