Blackberries are a seemingly simple thing. Just a fruit, a small one at that, that you can buy almost everywhere and all year round. But those supermarket berries are really peanuts compared to the blackberries of my childhood. No matter how far or where I travel, the scent of juicy blackberries, almost bursting with ripeness and baking in the hot late summer sun, immediately transport me back to home, Canada. Almost every summer we would make the drive to the small collection of islands wedged between Vancouver island and the mainland of Canada, where we would spend lazy summer days reading books on the beach, digging clams from the wet crumbly sand, jumping in the still-cold ocean, and walking along endless rocky beaches, stones smoothed by the perpetual tides. And without fail, picking blackberries. Whether for eating straight away or baking into a flaky pie crust, no summer trip was complete without little purple-black stains on our fingers and arms – souvenirs and memories all in one.
What’s the little thing that transports you back home no matter where you are?