Raspberries

Scratched legs, mosquito and no see um-bitten (I thought they were gone for the year), sweat running down in uncomfortable rivulets; these things are a small price to pay for a basket-full of the best summer fruit. Lethal vines, taller than me with 1/4 inch barbs guard the way to the biggest and most perfectly ripe berries. No matter. I judiciously pick through to find the elusive big ones. Somehow, picking in a tame garden doesn't hold the same sense of triumph!


Rubus idaeus is the botanical name for the tart/sweet fruit from the Rosaceae (rose) family. Wikipedia also lists: bright crimson red color; blowing a raspberry (obnoxious sound as a symbol of disrespect); a 70s pop rock band; and the Golden Raspberries, awards for the worst films and actors, an opposite to the Academy Awards.

The leaves of the raspberry plant also make a good woman's tea, used to soothe PMS, ease childbirth, also as a diuretic and has astringent properties, an all-around good woman's tonic. Somehow on the hunt for the fruit I never think of also collecting the leaves which by this time are not as powerful as all the plant energy is going into the fruit.

The tomato plants look forlorn and bereft and I see more tomatoes starting to turn black so leaving them on the plant will probably not save all of them.

The picked berries or what's left of them after sharing with the berry baby dog Pak have already gone into the freezer in a single layer for use this winter as a reminder of the triumph of the day. There is nothing though like eating them straight from the plant with no adornments. Pak knows this. I have never before seen a dog find, rip off, and voraciously inhale Black Hills chokecherries, blueberries, blackberries, gooseberries, any kind of berry except she's not too keen on cranberries!

Blight in the garden

Death has struck the tomatoes in the form of blight. Nearly overnight the healthy, tall vines thick with beefsteak and romas have begun to show black spots. We already lost the potatoes, the lovely King Harrys which were supposed to be blight-resistant, the Green Mountains. The Irish lad was thrilled to find the King Harrys. I feel the loss of the tomatoes more because I nurtured them from seed and was so looking forward to canning, freezing, dehydrating, making sauces and catsups. As I pruned their leaves and weeded, I breathed in the tomato aroma, thinking of tomato, mayo sandwiches, warm juices running. Nothing says summer more unless it's Block Island or Hampton Beach.

So, this afternoon I spent three hours in the hot sun pulling black leaves and even a few weakened plants in the hopes of allowing what tomatoes are left, more access to sunshine to turn red before the blight further weakens them. It was hot work. I was ruthless. We are not on the coast here and when the sun warms things up, it happens fast and is intense. I am not complaining mind. I will think back to this when it is 20 below or more still, during the inbetween time of October and November when it is cool but not cold enough to start the wood furnace. Then our house is chilly. Hard to imagine just now when it is 82 and 94% humidity!

It is our first garden after being here for five years. The Irish lad cut down two sugar maples to bring warmth and sun into the back yard. I miss the sugar maples that we tapped during sugaring time for my tonic drinks in the morning but I enjoy the garden more. He set up an elaborate system to water the garden and built an amazing pea fence and bean trellis.

The blight has been big news on TV, radio, even at church. Many have lost all their nightshade plants. I wonder how the Peasley farm is faring. They are the largest potato farmers in the area and we enjoy their potatoes throughout the winter.