Blackberry Sunday

They needed to get out and blow away the cobwebs in their minds.  To inflate their lungs with the gusty air.  They joined up with the Slovaks and tramped across rutted fields to brambly hedges.  The blackberries were fat and juicy, the spiky whipthreads laden with fruit.  There were sloes, rosehips and plump damsons.  

The wind grew colder, signalling oncoming change.  The sky became low and heavy.  She felt as though she could push a finger through the silken grey barrier and release the rain.  Before cover could be reached the deluge soaked them.  They huddled and watched the cloud heave over. 

Purple berry stained lips and hands, they headed home.  They saw a lone football sized puffball nestled in the grass.  A present for Mr Slovak, famed mushroom hunter, still at work, carving oak and elm.  In the bean field, a sleeping doe, awakened, startled, ran.  Passing at speed in frenzied state, the little ones screamed as it ran close enough to touch.  Hearts hammering, they laughed and shook.

Back at the Slovak house,  Mr Slovak joined them and they dined on the best smoked ham EVER.  Made by the Slovak grandpa, from his own pig.  Slowly cold smoked in his little smokehouse and matured at length.  Slivers of pure deliciousness, VJ could live on good bread and this ham alone.  

Wholesome bread, fat bacon, sweet pepper and paprika dip, fat gherkins and a bacon pate, all home produced.  The squished freshly picked blackberries, swirled with yogurt, soured cream and a dusting of icing sugar to finish.  Perfect.