My man and I took a ride out of on-fire Missoula up to Common Ground Farm in less-smoky Arlee for some raspberry pickin’. It meant a lot that he came with me because I know he like standing in 101 degree sun about as much as I like my toenails pulled off with pliers.
I don’t mind getting really hot as long as it is appropriate. I mean, sweating profusely while wearing a cute dress and sipping a martini? Not so much. But sweating like a whore on nickel night (that is an Anne Hughes epic one-liner) while in a patch of fresh, organic raspberries with the buzziest bees ever and a view of the Mission Mountains? I’ll take it any day. I was singing It’s Raining Men thanks to my friend, Savage.
We stepped into the first row and each picked a berry. Andy said, “Man. Imagine if this was your job.” And I said, “I can because it was my job for two years.” I was nostalgic for my days managing 3000 tomatoes and what seemed like a thousand grape vines at Ten Spoon. I can take the heat on a farm. I love getting grubby and being left with my thoughts and acres of produce. Just not for 40 hours a week.
We ended up with 10 pounds of fragrant, colorful, organic raspberries. Not that it was a contest, but Andy weighed in one pound more than me. But mine were all ripe and perfect and some of his were still light pink and wouldn’t pull off the stem. Not that it was a contest…but I won.
