I’ve learned to be okay with that. I’m happy enough to support my local farmers by buying produce from nearby markets.
We have a few little raspberry vines in a raised bed in our back yard. We planted them a few years ago and basically ignored them and they were tiny and yielded nothing. Until suddenly a few weeks ago I noticed a flash of dark pink as I walked past the sad, untended little things. Lifting the leaves, I saw a half-dozen perfect little ripe raspberries, and a dozen more still to come.
There were only enough berries that first day for each of us to try one. But, man, they are juicy and sweet and delicious. And we grew them. I mean, sort of. Mother Nature gets 99% of the credit, but we DID plant them in the ground. She did the rest.
Since then we’ve had 6, 10, 12 berries every few days. Q goes out to check them and always calls me before he pulls any off the vine–he does not want to eat them before they’re ripe, so he wants to be sure they’re ready. He needs help too, because his still-pudgy little hands tend to squish the berries rather than gently pull them loose.
We don’t have many, but raspberry plants spread, so there are quite a few vines in our raised bed now. Maybe next year we’ll see more. If not, though, it’s okay. I’m happy with a handful of berries every few days.
It’s a lovely surprise how different they taste when you’ve grown them yourself.