Golden Raspberries. I don't think I've ever seen them in Boston except for at Russo's. But last week they were there in the Alameda farmer's market and I knew I had to pick some up for the raspberry lover in my life.
The golden raspberries were a lot sweeter than the traditional red ones and such a happy color to boot. I went back to the market this week and a few stands were now selling them. These were even bigger and better! It's so strange to be back in a place where the growing season is so much longer. Last night we munched on perfectly ripe strawberries for dessert, taking turns going, "Ohh...that was a good one." In Boston, we would exalt in the 3-week long strawberry season, gobbling up as many as we could and sadly turning our noses up at the beautiful ones from California that had scary white insides.
H and I went raspberry picking once at an apple farm outside Boston. The bushes were pretty bare, but we dove in anyway, ducking and weaving through the thorny bushes, excited when we found the few that were clumped together on the bush. And the picking itself seemed fickle: tug too hard and you could squash the raspberry, tug too lightly and it didn't come off. You also had to make sure you tugged hard enough so that the inside of the raspberry popped out and stayed on the bush. One sweaty hour later, we looked into our little basket to discover that we'd barely picked a half pint between the two of us. Granted, every other raspberry probably went straight into our mouths, but I discovered a new-found respect for the people that harvest this fruit and will gladly pay for their patience.
I briefly thought about cooking with these beauties, but then quickly changed my mind. They would be eaten straight up and enjoyed as nature intended.
Bon Appétit!
The golden raspberries were a lot sweeter than the traditional red ones and such a happy color to boot. I went back to the market this week and a few stands were now selling them. These were even bigger and better! It's so strange to be back in a place where the growing season is so much longer. Last night we munched on perfectly ripe strawberries for dessert, taking turns going, "Ohh...that was a good one." In Boston, we would exalt in the 3-week long strawberry season, gobbling up as many as we could and sadly turning our noses up at the beautiful ones from California that had scary white insides.
H and I went raspberry picking once at an apple farm outside Boston. The bushes were pretty bare, but we dove in anyway, ducking and weaving through the thorny bushes, excited when we found the few that were clumped together on the bush. And the picking itself seemed fickle: tug too hard and you could squash the raspberry, tug too lightly and it didn't come off. You also had to make sure you tugged hard enough so that the inside of the raspberry popped out and stayed on the bush. One sweaty hour later, we looked into our little basket to discover that we'd barely picked a half pint between the two of us. Granted, every other raspberry probably went straight into our mouths, but I discovered a new-found respect for the people that harvest this fruit and will gladly pay for their patience.
I briefly thought about cooking with these beauties, but then quickly changed my mind. They would be eaten straight up and enjoyed as nature intended.
Bon Appétit!
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