My grandma gathered the dewberries in her stained apron and tasted a few to see how sweet they were. I went to wipe the sweat off of my forehead but my hands were full. My mom set the old metal bucket between us, in the lush weeds. I dropped in my bounty.
We picked until we had enough for two or three pies. At first I wasn’t sure I wanted to taste them but by the time we had finished I had put several into my mouth. I looked closely at my hands and could see the juice had dyed my cuticles, like tiny purple rivers. The berries were so good and fresh, grown right by the road next to my grandparents’ farm. Sweeter for that reason I suppose.
I’d gone through that metal gate so many times before, never noticing the bushes that lined the road, fostering this glorious fruit. I was used to eating my grandma’s poppy seed kolaches (traditional Czech pastry) but that morning after we arrived she suggested we go berry picking. She had pie on the brain for supper. I was not one to argue.
I sat at the long farm table in the hot kitchen, fanning myself with the local paper, as I watched her roll out the dough for the pies. She worked so hard, always. Her legs were bowed and I rarely saw her without her apron. If she left the kitchen it was to go for some fresh eggs from the hens or something out of the garden. I think she slept in that kitchen on occasion. Her oven and stove seemed as if they were always on.
But today she’d ventured down by the gravel road with us, calling to the cows as she walked. I didn’t know until I was older that she wore wigs. I did, however know that just a little bit of beer could make her extra “happy”.
That afternoon, at supper, the dewberry pie was more than delicious. The homemade crust exploded with the berries, their juice and sugar. It was so warm and made from the heart and soul of my Grandmother’s kitchen. I was glad to have a second serving. I was grateful to see it made from the very beginning…
I don’t think I’ve eaten a dewberry since then. Perhaps I picked a few again around the farm but if so they definitely did not leave the same impression as the day my mother and grandma and I spent picking them for pie. And despite the chigger bites, it remains one of the dearest memories I have of the three of us together.
This post was written for this week’s RemembeRED post…
…write about your favorite fresh fruit or vegetable.
Share a memory of when you first tasted it, where it came from, when you last had it, a favorite way to prepare it, and such.
As you write your piece this week, think of it as writing a scene. Be sure to engage our senses, make us feel, see, taste, hear, and smell. Pull us in with your description.
I’ve never had a dewberry, and now I’m completely compelled to find something so I can try them!
This was wonderful!
can’t say I’ve ever heard of dewberries. But you make them sound delicious!
Wow, Laney. You are good. Seriously. You have talent. A very good writer.
Why, oh why, don’t we live closer???? Seriously? I can’t tell you how much we have in common. It is just crazy!
Great post!
What a wonderful memory to hold of three generations of women. I loved, “like tiny purple rivers.” And though I don’t believe I’ve ever had a dewberry before, I now want one…thanks! :>
Coming from a girl who grew up in a small farming community, I love all your stories about the times you had on your grandparents farm. Great job, once again. I had trouble with this prompt so I’m in awe with a lot of the posts today – including yours.
Coming from a girl who grew up in a small farming community, I love all your stories about the times you had on your grandparents farm. Great job, once again. I had trouble with this prompt so I’m in awe with a lot of the posts today – including yours.
This makes me homesick for a time that is long gone and my grandmother who is picking berries and baking pies in heaven. {sniff}
What is a dewberry?
I have a similar memory of my grandma making blueberry pie with berries that we picked from the woods behind her house. They were the tiniest things and were so good!
I haven’t heard of a dewberry before. They sound good! Great writing! I was picking right along with you.
Since some have asked or commented what a “dewberry” is I went ahead and linked to it in my post. 🙂
I’m pretty sure I didn’t even know dewberries existed. But I DO know a thing or two about kolaches! YUM!
First of all, thank you for the link. I had no idea what dewberries are.
I so loved this post. The idea that your grandmother must have slept in the kitchen on occassion painted a picture of a woman who showed her love through food.
Do I dare admit that I’ve never had a dewberry before? But I love the story that you told. Very wholesome and sweet- much like I imagine the fruit itself to be. Well done!
I loved this. I’ve never had a dewberry, and now I want dewberry pie. 🙂
I don’t think I’ve ever had a dewberry. and now I want one. thanks!
I am learning so much while reading all of these stories! Thanks for that.
You did an amazing job!
Oh that was beautiful.
I loved the tiny details that pulled me in.
Perfect!!
Some of my fondest memories involve my mom and grandma. I miss them both terribly. On a totally different vein…I have never had (or even seen I think) a dewberry!
This was beautiful. Great way to bring us back to the memory of the experience. I enjoyed this little flash of your life!
You remember it so clearly, and I could practically see it as if I was in the room with you!
There’s something about spending time together in the kitchen with your mom and grandma. It just feels right. And the memories are so sweet. Lovely piece.
A love letter to your grandmother. So wonderfully done. So lovely. I love the detail of the stained cuticle, and all the little ways you paint a picture of the heat, the joy, and the cozyness of this place.