Blackberry picking is not for the faint of heart. The thorns tear at your flesh and grab your clothes as you reach towards the dark purple fruit. We scout out our spot and drive by watching, waiting for the perfect time to start picking. Blackberries grow everywhere, invading parking areas, crumbling asphalt, pushing up between the tiniest cracks. And yet we love the tarte fruit. Blackberries scones, waffles, and jams are all on the list. We fill our recycled ice cream buckets full of the berries. It takes maybe an hour if that. All the while plans are being made in our heads for blackberry cobbler for dessert that night. I stop picking thorns out of my thumb, disentangling my clothing from the long thorny vines. My fingers are purple and red stained from juice as I pull over ripe berries off their clusters. The heat bakes the berries and releases the aromatic sense blanketing the abandoned lot with sweet fruit smells. All this enhances our anticipation for what will come out of the oven later today.