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Last year for Mother's Day, Dave and Henry got me two black raspberry plants. Raspberries are my absolutely favorite thing to eat in the summer, and I was thrilled at the prospect of growing our own. We thought very hard about where to plant them, decided on a sunny spot, and let them get settled in. Last year they didn't do much other than to produce a few canes, as well as make some half-hearted inroads into our rhododendron. By mid-April, it had become clear that this was going to be a very good year for raspberries around these here parts.

Last week, the very first raspberry ripened to a beautiful, glossy black. Henry plucked it off the plant and suggested we take it across the street to give to the elderly woman we often stop and visit with. So we did. Sometimes Henry blows me away with his thoughtfulness. The next one ripened and Henry decided it should go to daddy. I was graced with the third one, mainly because I ran outside and grabbed it before Henry could get his hands on it and bring it to any of our other neighbors. Sometimes I blow myself away with my selfishness.

It was delicious.