A few months back, in the deep, dark, frozen recesses of January, a friend showed up at my door with two crates of blackberries in hand.
Apparently, he’d already dispensed about a dozen more elsewhere.
If you’d asked me before that January day if said friend had mafia connections, I would have unhesitatingly answered, “No!” Now, I’m not so sure—mostly because his explanation as to where the blackberries came from amounted to, “They fell off of a truck.”
Shifty. Very shifty.
Regardless, the roommates and I spent the next two weeks throwing blackberries into and onto everything we could think of: yogurt, smoothies, salads, crostini, and, of course, cobbler.
