Raspberry, raspberry, raspberry.

This morning for breakfast I crunched and crunched on fresh raspberry seeds. Even though I had not picked them this morning--they were not THAT fresh--the berries still looked like little jewels, all their berrylets glistening with the juice they could hardly contain. I felt silly crunching on their little seeds, like some whole foods version of that cereal commercial. But the PP only smiled at me and did not mock me. Partly this was because he had only just finished his own crunching session. But mostly it was because he could see that I was thinking about the day before and the collecting of the berries. On Saturday he and estaminet and I stood along a little country drive, picking the berries and collecting them into a special berrying pail. Each ripe berry would let go from the little cone that had harbored it, and there in your hand would a perfect small delicate thing. Try to harvest it too soon, and it would not let go, or it would only crush itself into your guilty fingers. But when the moment was right, it gave itself to you, allowed itself to be collected with the others. Admittedly, we only collected most of them: every so often one of us would emit that little crunching sound, revealing a theft from no one, a burst of pleasure. The others would protest the theft, only to emit their own little crunching sounds, saying that they too knew that pleasure, and that they forgave it.