As a bright, open-minded, open-hearted woman of the Deep South, I’ve long accepted that mine may always prove to be blackberry dreams: Those wonderful plans rising from the pits of personal chaos, that create a multitude of dainty, faintly fragrant blooms tempered by that final bitter cold cold-snap that turns on a dime into the unrelenting months of blistering heat, which may, in fact, provide a bumper crop of the biggest, plumpest fruit, but more often than not, no matter how black the berry or sweet the juice, leave those damn seeds between my teeth for days that make me wonder more than once, “Was it really worth it?”
Blackberry Dreams 