Hell be a gooseberry

Well, one of reader, it’s certainly been a while, has it not? Things fall apart, as a famous writer once said, and then they come together again in patterns of chaos, pathos, despair, joy, insanity, WTFedness, laughter, tears, rallying to laugh again. So let’s get on with it, as there are things that need to be said.

Like the tale of the gooseberries. Now, I clearly  - CLEARLY – recall having nostalgic and winsome conversations with my mother about her time growing up in the old country.

My mom: “Oh, gooseberries! I remember picking them as a child in Ukraine, and then we’d make pie. Gooseberry pie has always been my absolute favorite.”

Now. I’m not saying necessarily that talk of obscure, hard-to-find fruit is an early warning sign of dementia, but. Well. You be the judge.

I of course took this as a given, that I needed to find gooseberries. Here I’ll note that there’s a very valid reason one never sees gooseberries sold in stores, and that’s because they are Satan’s Own Fruit. Yes, it’s true. Go look up “gooseberry” in the dictionary, and there’ll just be a picture of Satan himself.

 

I naturally laugh at such minor challenges, which is why one day this summer I found myself at Fordyce Farm in Silverton, whose sign proudly proclaimed “u-pick black currants, goose, blue,” using the short-handed vernacular familiar to all. First I decided to pick black currants, because those too are difficult to find already picked. They’re tiny, don’t come off their strands easily, and grow in said strands instead of big clumps like the glorious blueberries. Yet, I persisted, and picked a full bucket, grumbling all the while.

“Black currants, you’re the bane of my existence! Surely the most difficult berry to pick!’

I believe the appropriate saying here is “man speaks, and nature laughs.”

Then, beckoning, were the gooseberries, in all their sparse-looking glory. My bucket was full, but ech, I had some plastic bags, and technically only needed 4 cups in order to make 2 pies. I’d pick them quickly and be done with it.

(half an hour later)

“AYEEEEE YOU FUCKER!” Luckily there was no other idiot intrepid soul in the field at that point, not that I would have really cared if there were. Because HOLY FUCK this was a nightmare. I quickly discovered that gooseberries grow in even more solitary existence than currants, and are guarded by a thicket of thorns. And not the painful but short thorns of the ubiquitous Oregon blackberry, oh no. These are inch-long thorns that bring to mind the Bre’r Patch of Peter Rabbit fame. So to get a lone gooseberry, one had to reach into this thicket to pluck the little bastard berry, which of course didn’t come willingly. Of course I hadn’t brought gloves, though in retrospect, the only adequate preparation would have been a full suit of Kevlar.

At one point, I was reaching for a fat-looking berry……and lost my balance and almost tumbled forward into the patch of thorns.

At the time of screaming, wasp #1 had bitten me on my hand, adding insult to injury and my scratched up and bleeding hands and arms. I assessed the haul in my little bag, and determined…..not enough. Grimly, I persisted.

 

(an hour later)

Wasp #2 has bitten me. My hands are actively bleeding, and oh look, it’s starting to rain. I look into my plastic bag and say, good enough. I start wandering back to the main building, small bag of gooseberries clutched to my chest, looking and feeling shellshocked. When I walk in, I have no words.

Girl #1: Hello?

Me: ……..

Girl #2: Do you need to weigh some fruit?

Me:….I….I….….goose….gooseberries.

Girls 1 and 2, in unison: Oooooohhhhhhh.

I show them my bruised, bitten, scratched and bleeding arms and hands, and they leap into action, offering Benadryl, Neosporin, tea tree oil, bandaids.

Me: I……I think I just need a drink. A big one. A big stiff drink, yeah, that’s it.

When I leave, I carefully place my little gooseberry jewels on the front seat next to me, cushioned by other material, as I bask in the glow of triumph, knowing how much my mom will appreciate this ethereal pie of her childhood. Well done, I say to myself, well done.

* * * * * * *

(2 days later, Huntley, IL)

 

Me, having arrived at my mom’s house pre-RAGBRAI, and having already taken the 30 pounds of cherries from my suitcase: Look! LOOK WHAT I HAVE BROUGHT! Behold!

Mom: What are those?

Me: Umm, gooseberries. You know, beloved fruit of your childhood, made into your favorite pie in the entire world by Baba’s capable and nimble hands?

Mom: What’s a gooseberry?

Codicil: I did make an incredible pie the next day, which is in fact now MY favorite pie, with the tartness of those little fuckers gooseberries lending themselves to the most amazing pie. My mom still claims she has no idea what I’m talking about with this “but you said that was your favorite pie from childhood story!” but also concedes that it’s a great pie. I think I win.)