The Economically Challenged London Cook Book

NEWS ALERT: Hampstead Heath has free food.

I've noticed blackberries everywhere lately and it's true - they're currently in season in England (the internet told me so). I see them growing wild in grocery store parking lots, near bus stops, and this morning I saw them on my run (I walked a lot too, but don't tell). Tonight after dinner I started daydreaming of blackberry crisp so I grabbed a plastic bag and headed out the door with determination in my heart and a maniacal glint in my eye (I get it from my dad). I headed down the road to the bus stop I had passed earlier today and there they were hanging over a brick wall almost out of reach. Actually, most of the good ones were out of reach (or guarded by a killer death spider's inconvenient web). I walked around the corner and once again found them just out of reach (I might have almost gotten my arm stuck through a fence-post). I debated jumping the rusty spiked fenced despite the thicket being full of thorns and my feet clad only in flip-flops (Australians say "thongs" which I find inapropriately hilarious). I considered scaling the brick wall next to the railway despite the crowd of proper non-berry-pickers passing by in their smart attire. But then - miracle of miracles - I found some hedgerows on the path leading to the heath. Success! I jumped into the dense foliage with zeal and visions of blackberry-crisp-faeries dancing in my head. A few scrapes, tangled thorn moments, and swollen nettle pricks later I emerged victorious:

And I think I have discovered why so many of these precious morsels go untouched. Firstly, I don't think the British like to look stupid. Secondly, I don't think the British like to look desperate. Thirdly, I don't think the British like to walk home with tangled hair, scraped juice-stained arms, and a bag of dirty berries in their hands. But hey, no shame, no gain (I made that up just now, see it's a play on that other phrase...).

Next time I'm wearing my wellies and gloves.