Bill Moeller Commentary: Seasonal Treats Ahead — We Can Hope So, Anyways

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As I start writing this column, the sun — while not totally showing itself — has at least been peeking around a cloud or two. And that brings out the hope that spring, while still mostly hiding from us, is at least considering the possibility of appearing for more than a few minutes one of these days. 

It was enough to give me an urge to go outside to see if the four different raspberry plants I had planted last fall were showing any sign of life. I think I spied a tiny spot of green on two of them, but the other two were still barren. 

It's early, so I can give them time. 

Raspberries are my second choice in the berry family. I think I have always preferred the local wild blackberries above all others. If you're old enough to remember a time when they were once more plentiful, the chances are they're your favorite, too. They grew almost entirely in land that had just been recently logged. I've written before about when I had the opportunity a few years ago to take advantage of just such a location on a friend's land that had been recently logged on Seminary Hill. 

That was before I started seeing more frequent bits of evidence — not surprisingly — of the presence of bears. (The technical term for wild blackberries contains the term "ursa", which just also happens to be the technical name for bears.) 

I was, however, able to gather enough berries to put together a few bachelor-primitive examples of the greatest desert dish of all time, namely "blackberry pies," before the supply ran out. I grew up with them and, while I can't remember if it was my mother or grandmother who baked them, I managed to contribute to their presence in another way. 

To set the stage for the next bit, there was a city street in western Tacoma (and I think I've mentioned before that we lived two city blocks from the end of paved streets) that while also being unpaved, was blocked by a huge water pipe that ran across it. Well, the absence of traffic permitted a lot of foliage to grow around the pipe and clinging to that foliage were various vines to which the stems of wild blackberries could cling to for more light, I suspect. 

Now, there were two other children in the neighborhood: a girl about my age who lived across the side street and a younger boy who lived in the next block. During the magic part of the summer, there was always a challenge each morning to see who could get to the berries first. 

I don't remember exactly, but I think the daily arrival on the scene was pretty well-balanced between the three of us. Well, maybe between the girl and I? 



Splitting a prize crop three ways meant that there was hardly ever much more than one pie per family per summer, but I've never forgotten the fun we had gathering our crop and how wonderful those resulting culinary gems tasted. 

Now, all of the above is only the setting for what I really wanted to write about. It's not time yet to be picking wild blackberries, of course, but we can prepare ourselves for the future. It was last fall in this very newspaper that there was a small advertisement announcing the availability of wild blackberry pies in a restaurant I was not familiar with. I assumed, though, that it was in the east part of the county, just about the only place where enough of those berries can still be found today. 

Unfortunately, I did not cut the ad out. I thought I would wait until I could find out more about the restaurant's location before I asked a friend, who admitted she had never eaten a wild blackberry pie, to join me as my guest to visit the restaurant. 

She deserves a treat, having taken care of my home and my cat, Sam, all the time I was laid up with the broken leg that I've already written about. I concluded that sharing the most delicious treat that I knew of to be at least a partial "thank you" for her going "the extra mile" for me. And Sam, of course. Then the world came apart. 

There was never another ad from the restaurant in the paper again. I could only surmise that the single mention of that delicacy was sufficient to attract enough customers to their location so that another notice wasn't needed. 

Now, I know it's awfully early in the year to be thinking about blackberry pies, but I'd sure appreciate knowing the name and location of that restaurant so I can document it on my wall calendar. 

My email address is always at the bottom of these ramblings or you might leave a note at The Chronicle for me? I'd appreciate it very much. Obviously, based on our weather cycle, there is no immediate rush.

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Bill Moeller is a former entertainer, mayor, bookstore owner, city council member, paratrooper and pilot living in Centralia. He can be reached at bookmaven321@comcast.net.