Yesterday, we took advantage of the rain to go blackberry-picking among the canes growing wild at a nearby park. The bees, I had heard, have been particularly agitated lately, sending several neighborhood children home in tears on one of the few sunny afternoons we’ve had. I attributed this to the bees’ formidable to do list combined with a weather-restricted work schedule. Don’t we all get that way from time to time?
I figured that the pouring rain might work in our favor. With the bees on siesta, maybe our non-stealthy approach to foraging might go unnoticed. And it did, allowing us (me, mostly) to pick a scant pint. The rain did not, however, save me from being stung by angry three-year-olds. Soggy, angry three-year-olds:
Him: Mommy, I want a raspberry.
Me: These are blackberries. Here, have one.
Him: No, I want a raspberry.
Me: There aren’t any raspberries here. Only blackberries.
Him: But Mommy, I see a raspberry RIGHT THERE.
Me: Ohhhh. Those red berries aren’t raspberries, they’re unripe blackberries.
Him: Yes, they ARE raspberries. I see them RIGHT THERE.
Sheesh, the kid grows up in a CSA and suddenly he’s a berry expert. (To be fair, they do look exactly like raspberries.)
Me: No, those don’t taste good. Try one of these.
Him: Nooooooo, Mommy, nooooo…RASPBERRIIIIIEEEEESSSSS…
Me: Okay, fine. Here. (handing him a red one)
He tastes it, shivers. I go back to picking.
Him: …Can I have a blackberry, please?
Meanwhile, the angry six-year-old stayed behind in the car. Something about it raining really hard. Yeah, kid, what else is new? Mommy needs to get the hell outside before she hangs herself with her computer cord.
Author's Note: What makes this post hilarious is that, come to find out, those berries aren’t blackberries at all, but black raspberries. Because I can never pass up an opportunity to be a moron. You can read all about the berry differences in the comment section, but how I found out was at dinner tonight when we had some friends over and I threw the remaining “blackberries” into a blueberry cobbler I was making and my friend said, those aren’t blackberries, they’re black raspberries, and I had to smile about what I wrote, knowing how smug I was to think I could win a battle of wits with a preschooler. WRONG. So, yes, the 3YO was right about the plant classification. As for me, well, at least I know my colors!