Wild Raspberry Quotes

Trust it turned out, was a very beautiful and fragile thing with a taste like wild raspberries and experienced only by the very brave.

To-day I think Only with scents, - scents dead leaves yield, And bracken, and wild carrot's seed, And the square mustard field; Odours that rise When the spade wounds the root of tree, Rose, currant, raspberry, or goutweed, Rhubarb or celery; The smoke's smell, too, Flowing from where a bonfire burns The dead, the waste, the dangerous, And all to sweetness turns. It is enough To smell, to crumble the dark earth, While the robin sings over again Sad songs of Autumn mirth." - A poem called DIGGING.

Trust, it turned out, was a very beautiful and fragile thing with a taste like wild raspberries and experienced only by the very brave.

In Port William, more than anyplace else I had been, this religion that scorned the beauty and goodness of this world was a puzzle to me. To begin with, I don’t think anybody believed it. I still don’t think so. Those world-condemning sermons were preached to people who, on Sunday mornings, would be wearing their prettiest clothes. Even the old widows in their dark dresses would be pleasing to look at. By dressing up on the one day when most of them had leisure to do it, they had signified their wish to present themselves to one another and to Heaven looking their best. The people who heard those sermons loved good crops, good gardens, good livestock and work animals and dogs; they loved flowers and the shade of trees, and laughter and music; some of them could make you a fair speech on the pleasures of a good drink of water or a patch of wild raspberries. While the wickedness of the flesh was preached from the pulpit, the young husbands and wives and the courting couples sat thigh to thigh, full of yearning and joy, and the old people thought of the beauty of the children. And when church was over they would go home to Heavenly dinners of fried chicken, it might be, and creamed new potatoes and hot biscuits and butter and cherry pie and sweet milk and buttermilk. And the preacher and his family would always be invited to eat with somebody and they would always go, and the preacher, having just foresworn on behalf of everybody the joys of the flesh, would eat with unconsecrated relish.

Every summer I'd spend a couple of months on the farm in Yale walking the dirt road that led to the highway, picking wild raspberries along the way. Often I'd walk out into the watermelons, pick one up over my head, and let it fall so that it split wide open. Then I'd eat the sweet heart out of it and leave the rest to the birds.

My wife and I had called on Miss Stein, and she and the friend who lived with her had been very cordial and friendly and we had loved the big studio with the great paintings. I t was like one of the best rooms in the finest museum except there was a big fireplace and it was warm and comfortable and they gave you good things to eat and tea and natural distilled liqueurs made from purple plums, yellow plums or wild raspberries. Miss Stein was very big but not tall and was heavily built like a peasant woman. She had beautiful eyes and a strong German-Jewish face that also could have been Friulano and she reminded me of a northern I talian peasant woman with her clothes, her mobile face and her lovely, thick, alive immigrant hair which she wore put up in the same way she had probably worn it in college. She talked all the time and at first it was about people and places. Her companion had a very pleasant voice, was small, very dark, with her hair cut like Joan of Arc in the Boutet de Monvel illustrations and had a very hooked nose. She was working on a piece of needlepoint when we first met them and she worked on this and saw to the food and drink and talked to my wife. She made one conversation and listened to two and often interrupted the one she was not making. Afterwards she explained to me that she always talked to the wives. The wives, my wife and I felt, were tolerated. But we liked Miss Stein and her friend, although the friend was frightening. The paintings and the cakes and the eau-de-vie were truly wonderful. They seemed to like us too and treated us as though we were very good, well-mannered and promising children and I felt that they forgave us for being in love and being married - time would fix that - and when my wife invited them to tea, they accepted.

In May, when the grass was so green it hurt to look at it, the air so overpoweringly sweet you had to go in and turn on the television just to dull your senses- that's when Claire knew it was time to look for the asparagus in the pastures. If it rained she wondered if she should check our secret places for morels. In June, when the strawberries ripened, we made hay and the girls rode on top of the wagon. I was ever mindful of the boy who had fallen off and broken his neck. In July, the pink raspberries, all in brambles in the woods and growing up our front porch, turned black and tart. In August, the sour apples were the coming thing. In September there were the crippled-up pears in the old orchard. In October, we picked the pumpkin and popcorn. And all winter, when there was snow, we lived for the wild trip down the slopes on the toboggan.

My wife and I had called on Miss Stein, and she and the friend who lived with her had been very cordial and friendly and we had loved the big studio with the great paintings. It was like one of the best rooms in the finest museum except there was a big fireplace and it was warm and comfortable and they gave you good things to eat and tea and natural distilled liqueurs made from purple plums, yellow plums or wild raspberries. These were fragrant, colorless alcohols served from cut-glass carafes in small glasses and whether they were quetsche, mirabelle or framboise they all tasted like the fruits they came from, converted into a controlled fire on your tongue that warmed you and loosened your tongue. Miss Stein was very big but not tall and was heavily built like a peasant woman. She had beautiful eyes and a strong German-Jewish face that also could have been Friulano and she reminded me of a northern Italian peasant woman with her clothes, her mobile face and her lovely, thick, alive immigrant hair which she wore put up in the same way she had probably worn it in college. She talked all the time and at first it was about people and places.

I swear I won't run away again, though. If I have to go, or if you ask me to, I'll walk away after saying goodbye." Tyler' finger closed around his. "Walk slow," he said. "So I can catch up with you.

The Hedgehog I ran away and hid in the woods, I was an imprudent child, in My charmed hedgehog skin, I ran away And I was happy in my fairytale Forest, where no one came in, nor Could have penetrated my white magic, I was protected from any disturbances. I was feeding on blueberries, blackberries, wild Fruits, I ate, wept, and I was looking for The tender raspberry, which, magically, It could change my dreams in reality And could drive all my sadness away; Here in my divine forest I loved And I was much loved...

The chokecherries -- gregarious and chatty, perched on their branches calling out to everyone to strip them off. Wild plums -- sarcastic and timid at the same time -- called out from behind their leaves only to retreat into the brushy brambles where they lived. Raspberries and blackberries -- royal and corrupt princes -- braved it out in the full sun of forest clearings. Gooseberries and huckleberries -- reticent, tradition-bound and private -- lived on unbothered in the swamps. Cranberries and pincherries (those party-goers) draped themselves over the furniture of the branches and invited all passerby, birds and people, to join the party. The blueberries and wintergreen grew undisturbed -- calmly bourgeois -- in the carpeted hush of the big woods.

Escoffier knew if he could win Sara's heart it would be with a dish made of truffles and pureed foie gras, the one she often doted over. The subtle aroma of truffle, according to the great Brillat-Savarin, was an aphrodisiac. And so, "Let the food speak where words cannot," Escoffier said, making the sign of the cross, and cooking as if his life depended on it, because on some level it did. When the chef finally knocked on the studio door, his small hands shook under the weight of the silver tray and its domed cover. Escoffier had changed into clean clothes and now looked more like a banker than a chef. But he was, most certainly, a chef. Beneath the dome, caramelized sweetbreads, covered with truffles, lay on a bed of golden noodles that were napped in a sauce made from the foie gras of ducks fed on wild raspberries, the 'framboise,' of the countryside. It was a dish of profound simplicity, and yet luxury.

It is finished. The tale is told truthfully, and truth is no heavier, no more beautiful than lies. Yet there is something that makes me love the truth, and that love made me wander and worry until the truth was given to you, like a gift. For this in the end is what we have. The love of something. Wild ponies. A kiss salted by tears. The scent of raspberry syrup in a bottle. Oranges. Two lost children who come to your house in the dark forest. There is much to love, and that love is what we are left with. When the bombs stop dropping, and the camps fall back to the earth and decay, and we are done killing each other, that is what we must hold. We can never let the world take our memories of love away, and if there are no memories, we must invent love all over again. The wheel turns. Blue above, green below, we wander a long way, but love is what the cup of our soul contains when we leave the world and the flesh. This we will drink forever. I know. I am Magda. I am the witch.

And then she set to work, washing fresh blueberries that sat on the counter, before grabbing a big colander. Sam headed into the backyard, whose lawn backed acres of woods. Blackberries and raspberries grew wild and thick in the brambles that sat at the edge of the woods. Sam carefully navigated her way through the thorny vines, her thin running shirt catching and snagging on a thorn. "Darn it," she mumbled. Blackberries are red when they're green, she could hear her grandfather telling her when they used to pick the fruit. But today, a brilliant summer day, the blackberries were deep purple, almost black, and each one resembled a mini beehive. Sam plucked and popped a fresh blackberry, already warm from the sun, into her mouth, savoring the natural sweetness, and picked until her colander was half full before easing her way through the woods to find a raspberry bush thick with fruit. She navigated her way out of the brambles and headed back to the kitchen, where she preheated the oven and began to wash the blackberries and raspberries. Sam pulled cold, unsalted butter from the fridge and began to cube it, some flour and sugar from the cupboard, a large bowl, and then she located her grandmother's old pastry blender. Sam made the crust and then rolled it into a ball, lightly flouring it and wrapping it in plastic before placing it in the refrigerator. Then she started in on the filling, mixing the berries, sugar, flour, and fresh orange juice.

Try to eat at least three of these foods per day—the more the better—rotating your consumption so that in a given week or two, you get all of these foods into your system. Wild blueberries: help restore the central nervous system and flush EBV neurotoxins out of the liver. Celery: strengthens hydrochloric acid in the gut and provides mineral salts to the central nervous system. Sprouts: high in zinc and selenium to strengthen the immune system against EBV. Asparagus: cleanses the liver and spleen; strengthens the pancreas. Spinach: creates an alkaline environment in the body and provides highly absorbable micronutrients to the nervous system. Cilantro: removes heavy metals such as mercury and lead, which are favored foods of EBV. Parsley: removes high levels of copper and aluminum, which feed EBV. Coconut oil: antiviral and acts as an anti-inflammatory. Garlic: antiviral and antibacterial that defends against EBV. Ginger: helps with nutrient assimilation and relieves spasms associated with EBV. Raspberries: rich in antioxidants to remove free radicals from the organs and bloodstream. Lettuce: stimulates peristaltic action in the intestinal tract and helps cleanse EBV from the liver. Papayas: restore the central nervous system; strengthen and rebuild hydrochloric acid in the gut. Apricots: immune system rebuilders that also strengthen the blood. Pomegranates: help detox and cleanse the blood as well as the lymphatic system. Grapefruit: rich source of bioflavonoids and calcium to support the immune system and flush toxins out of the body. Kale: high in specific alkaloids that protect against viruses such as EBV. Sweet potatoes: help cleanse and detox the liver from EBV byproducts and toxins. Cucumbers: strengthen the adrenals and kidneys and flush neurotoxins out of the bloodstream. Fennel: contains strong antiviral compounds to fight off EBV. Healing Herbs and Supplements

Many wild foods have their charms, but the dearest one to my heart - my favorite fruit in the whole world - is the thimbleberry. Imagine the sweetest strawberry you've ever tasted, crossed with the tartest raspberry you've ever eaten. Give in the texture of silk velvet and make it melt to sweet juice the moment it hints your tongue. Shape it like the age-old sewing accessory that gives the fruit its name, and make it just big enough to cup a dainty fingertip. That delicious jewel of a fruit is a thimbleberry. They're too fragile to ship and too perishable to store, so they are one of those few precious things in life that can't be commoditized, and for me they always symbolize the essence of grabbing joy while I can. When it rains in thimbleberry season, the delicate berries get so damp that even the gentlest pressure crushes them, so instead of bringing them home as mush, I lick each one of my fingers as soon as it is picked. These sweet berries are treasure beyond price...

My mother had a passion for all fruit except oranges, which she refused to allow in the house. She named each one of us, on a seeming whim, after a fruit and a recipe- Cassis, for her thick black-currant cake. Framboise, her raspberry liqueur, and Reinette after the reine-claude greengages that grew against the south wall of the house, thick as grapes, syrupy with wasps in midsummer. At one time we had over a hundred trees (apples, pears, plums, gages, cherries, quinces), not to mention the raspberry canes and the fields of strawberries, gooseberries, currants- the fruits of which were dried, stored, made into jams and liqueurs and wonderful cartwheel tarts on pâte brisée and crème pâtissière and almond paste. My memories are flavored with their scents, their colors, their names. My mother tended them as if they were her favorite children. Smudge pots against the frost, which we base every spring. And in summer, to keep the birds away, we would tie shapes cut out of silver paper onto the ends of the branches that would shiver and flick-flack in the wind, moose blowers of string drawn tightly across empty tin cans to make eerie bird-frightening sounds, windmills of colored paper that would spin wildly, so that the orchard was a carnival of baubles and shining ribbons and shrieking wires, like a Christmas party in midsummer. And the trees all had names. Belle Yvonne, my mother would say as she passed a gnarled pear tree. Rose d'Aquitane. Beurre du Roe Henry. Her voice at these times was soft, almost monotone. I could not tell whether she was speaking to me or to herself. Conference. Williams. Ghislane de Penthièvre. This sweetness.

My family’s disregard played an important role.” Her gaze dropped. “It allowed me to realize the greatest love I will ever know.” She gave herself a moment, then blinked back to Beebe. “That summer, I decided not to turn pro and let the world

The future is another story! said the author.

vireos serenading us, drinking water straight from the Lake, eating late-season wild raspberries, and dozing beneath

Joe himself remained the same as ever, picking his early fruit and laying it out in crates, making jam from windfalls, pointing out wild herbs and picking them when the moon was full, collecting bilberries from the moors and blackberries from the railway banking, preparing chutney from his tomatoes, piccalilli from his cauliflowers, lavender bags for sleeplessness, wintergreen for rapid healing, hot peppers and rosemary in oil and pickled onions for the winter. And, of course, there was the wine. Throughout all that summer Jay smelled wine brewing, fermenting, aging. All kinds of wine: beet root, pea pod, raspberry, elderflower, rose hip, jackapple, plum, parsnip, ginger, blackberry. The house was a distillery, with pans of fruit boiling on the stove, demijohns of wine waiting on the kitchen floor to be decanted into bottles, muslins drying on the clothesline for straining the fruit, sieves, buckets, bottles, funnels, laid out in neat rows ready for use.

The following are among the top foods to eat to bounce back from adrenal fatigue: sprouts, asparagus, wild blueberries, bananas, garlic, broccoli, kale, raspberries, blackberries, romaine lettuce, and red-skinned apples.

Oh, sweet mother of fuckers. I almost wept at the taste. It was the nirvana of chocolate, the perfect sweetness, the perfect moistness, the perfect richness, and then to reward the eater further, the cake was shot through with raspberry. Literally the best pairing in the world.

Consume in limited quantities Non-cheese dairy—milk, cottage cheese, yogurt, butter Fruit—Berries are the best: blueberries, raspberries, blackberries, strawberries, cranberries, and cherries. Be careful of the most sugary fruits, including pineapple, papaya, mango, and banana. Avoid dried fruit, especially figs and dates, due to the excessive sugar content. Whole corn (not to be confused with cornmeal or cornstarch, which should be avoided) Fruit juices Nonwheat, nongluten grains—quinoa, millet, sorghum, teff, amaranth, buckwheat, rice (brown and white), oats, wild rice Legumes—black beans, kidney beans, butter beans, Spanish beans, lima beans; lentils; chickpeas; potatoes (white and red), yams, sweet potatoes Soy products—tofu, tempeh, miso, natto; edamame, soybeans

Ghost House I dwell in a lonely house I know That vanished many a summer ago, And left no trace but the cellar walls, And a cellar in which the daylight falls, And the purple-stemmed wild raspberries grow. O’er ruined fences the grape-vines shield The woods come back to the mowing field; The orchard tree has grown one copse Of new wood and old where the woodpecker chops; The footpath down to the well is healed. I dwell with a strangely aching heart In that vanished abode there far apart On that disused and forgotten road That has no dust-bath now for the toad. Night comes; the black bats tumble and dart; The whippoorwill is coming to shout And hush and cluck and flutter about; I hear him begin far enough away Full many a time to say his say Before he arrives to say it out. It is under the small, dim, summer star. I know not who these mute folk are Who share the unlit place with me- Those stones out under the low-limbed tree Doubtless bear names that the mosses mar. They are tireless folk, but slow and sad, Though two, close-keeping, are lass and lad- With none among them that ever sings, And yet, in view of how many things, As sweet companions as might be had.

The people who heard those sermons loved good crops, good gardens, good livestock and work animals and dogs; they loved flowers and the shade of trees, and laughter and music; some of them could make you a fair speech on the pleasures of a good drink of water or a patch of wild raspberries. While the wickedness of the flesh was preached from the pulpit, the young husbands and wives and the courting couples sat thigh to thigh, full of yearning and joy, and the old people thought of the beauty of the children. And when church was over they would go home to Heavenly dinners of fried chicken, it might be, and creamed new potatoes and creamed new peas and hot biscuits and butter and cherry pie and sweet milk and buttermilk. And the preacher and his family would always be invited to eat with somebody and they would always go, and the preacher, having just foresworn on behalf of everybody

He set a raspberry cheese slice wrapped in parchment paper on the counter and she slid it off, biting off the corner with an "mmm." Her eyes closed as she chewed and swallowed, taking another large bite with an even more audible sigh. "That is indecent," Steph said. He wished he could figure out the rest of their names, but at least time was on his side again. "It is indecent in the very best way," she said. "Everything tastes ten times better than it ever did before." She held out the pastry to each of her friends so they could taste, all nodding in agreement. Most patrons didn't eat their treats while still in the building, and it was wildly satisfying to witness her enjoyment, titillating even. Parts of him tightened that hadn't tightened in response to another person in much too long. One of the friends pointed out the fleck of glaze perched on her lip and she licked it into her mouth. Talk about indecent. He placed both of his hands on top of the pastry case to steady himself, his knees suddenly unstable like he'd spent a morning moving bags of flour from the kitchen to the cellar. He was grateful the apron covered the front of him.

On the right is Sauce Poivrade, a sauce made from beef or venison stock and lots of pepper. It has a rough bite with a lingering and clear aftertaste. Poivrade comes from the French word poivre, which means "pepper." This heavy and strongly flavored peppercorn sauce gives the mild and light venison a sense of weighty volume, you see. Then I took some of the sauce and added various berries to give it some tangy and refreshing sweetness, making the sauce on the left- Sauce Poivrade au Baie The berries I used are-" "Blueberries, blackberries, and red currants. You also used black currant liqueur, red wine, blueberry vinegar and raspberry jam. Correct?" "Amazing! You got them all. Not surprising, I guess, considering it's you." But that sauce is not nearly as simple as it sounds! It uses liqueur, wine, vinegar, jam and raw fruit... five different forms of fruit actually, all painstakingly and precisely added together. It's what gives the sauce such a deep and complex flavor. But make even the tiniest mistake and the flavor will get muddled or overly bitter! Keeping everything in correct proportion is a tricky balancing act! It can't be done without a full and nuanced knowledge of all of the particular traits and compatibilities of each individual ingredient! It is a superhuman dish only someone like Eishi Tsukasa's skill and knowledge could create. With the two different sauces, he has beautifully expressed both the delicate elegance and the untamed wildness of a deer!

Berthillon's ice cream is dense and creamy--- served, in keeping with French rules of moderation, in golf-ball-size scoops. You have to be a real purist to order a simple (pronounced samp-le"). I usually ordered a double (doob-le"). Menthe (fresh mint), Créole (rum raisin), and nougat-miel (honey-nougat) are at the top of my list. But as good as the ice cream is, it's the sorbets that are Berthillon's real standouts. I almost always order cacao amer, a bitter chocolate sorbet so dark it's closing in on black. My second scoop depends on the season: pear, melon, rhubarb, or framboise à la rose (raspberry with a hint of rose). But habit often sets in and I go back to my old favorite: fraise des bois (wild strawberry). These tiny gem-like fruits are the equivalent of strawberry grenades, releasing a tart, concentrated flavor that downgrades every other strawberry I've tasted to the level of Bubblicious.

Whack rules in New York. Everyone has to be wild, outrageous, excessive- anything to be different from everyone else. And that includes our hot cocoa. Every February, for example, Maury Rubin hosts the Hot Chocolate Festival at City Bakery with a special flavor featured each day, from spicy fig to bourbon to tropical. I still haven't gotten through all the flavors but can wholeheartedly vouch for City Bakery's out-of-this-world classic cocoa, served year-round. Opt for the giant homemade marshmallow floating on top to sweeten things up even more. Another fancy favorite is the white hot chocolate with lemon myrtle and lavender at Vosges Haut-chocolat in Soho. I really do think Angelina's chocolat chaud is the creamiest and dreamiest in Paris. But I also would never say no to a pitcher at Jacques Genin in the Marais or Les Deux Magots in Saint-Germain, both sinfully thick and delicious ways to get your choco-fix. For something approaching New York's adventures in fun flavors, head to the second-level tearoom of Jean-Paul Hévin for decadent raspberry-, matcha-, or ginger-flavored cocoa.

She sat down in front of her open pantry and breathed deeply. She reached forward and patted the large clear jar of dried flageolet beans. She pawed the ten-pound bag of basmati rice, sweet and fragrant. She kissed the chickpeas, haricot beans, dried wild mushrooms. Ah, yes, even the dried cèpes. Oh, she felt better. And look, her vinegars, balsamic, sherry, white and red wine, cider, raspberry. And the oils. So many oils. And so many marinated vegetables. She marinated them herself, picking the freshest, finest baby vegetables, adding extra-virgin olive oil, and enclosing them in beautiful jars. Ah, and look, she smiled. Walnut oil peeked from behind a linen bag of fresh walnuts. She could make a goat cheese salad at any moment. She took a deep, restorative breath. She fingered the labels of the canned smoked oysters, the mussels, the herring, and the boneless skinned sardines in olive oil. She could make a sardine pâté in seconds. And best of all were her vacuum-packed French-style crêpes, which she kept in case of emergencies. A flip of the wrist and she could sit down to a feast of crêpes oozing with fruit syrup and slathered in whipped cream.

Chicken legs, beef ribs- they ate the food with their fingers, dipping into the horseradish sauce, feeding each other greedily. Laughing. They rolled leaves of cabbages and chewed on them like monkeys. They ate the golden potatoes as if they were apples. By the time they returned to the making of stock, and took the roasted veal bones from the stove and put them into the pot and filled it with enough cold water so that it could slowly simmer, their own legs no longer ached, their feet felt as if they could stand the weight of their bones for yet another day and they tasted of garlic and wine. "Thank you, chef," he said. "Thank you, chef." She opened the cheese larder and took out a wedge of runny Camembert, which she covered with a handful of white raspberries that he had draining in a colander by the sink. He opened a bottle of port. The dishes could wait. They sat on the back stairs of the tall thin house and looked over the lights of the steep city of Monte Carlo and out into the endless sea. The air was cool, the cheese and raspberries were rich and tart; the port was unfathomably complex with wave and wave of spiced cherries, burnt caramel and wild honey.

For many years, Henry Kitteridge was a pharmacist in the next town over, driving every morning on snowy roads, or rainy roads, or summertime roads, when the wild raspberries shot their new growth in brambles along the last section of town before he turned off to where the wider road led to the pharmacy.

Why should dropping trees seem so different from beheading stalks of broccoli or uprooting the wild raspberries and milkweed that encroached on the garden? Did killing trees feel different merely because they were bigger?

While they were in the hospital, the Egg Moon had slipped away, and the new Mother's Moon had arrived. After that, in June, would come the Rose Moon, what Ada McIntyre called the Strawberry Moon because strawberries, wild and domestic, ripened. After the strawberries came the mulberries and blackcap raspberries, then the blackberries, the blueberries, and finally, the cranberries.