As sure as the solstice tells us it’s summertime, so does the purple shadow of the mulberry tree. Around this time of year, the swollen mulberries that aren’t eaten by birds (whose purple droppings are in their own way an indication of the season) fall around the perimeter of their trees, splattering juice that permeates everything it touches.
I love mulberries. Growing up, I had a mulberry tree an arm’s length from my bedroom window, and every summer I would eat handfuls of berries right from the tree. Once I piled some berries into my favorite bowl–an old teal, glazed ceramic dish with a grooved handle that my grandmother gave me, which I normally reserved for ice cream–which I sadly broke when I threw the bowl into the air after a spider emerged from the depths of my mulberry bootie. I outgrew my fear of spiders, but not my fondness of those little sweet-tart berries.
I was pleasantly surprised the first time I spotted a mulberry tree in the city. A few years ago I discovered a really tall one in an empty lot adjacent to our apartment building. Giddy at finding (free!) produce in an otherwise nondescript, overgrown lot, I threw caution to the wind (the tree is located right next to the expressway…aaah, fumes!) and collected as many berries as I could reach. Their tangy, blackberry-like goodness contrasted nicely with the vanilla ice cream, both in color and flavor.
Two days ago I took pleasure in purple thumbs once again after I spotted another mulberry tree. Art and I were bicycling home from Maxwell Street Market when I slammed on my breaks, skidding in the berries that had fallen into the street. I’m happy to have found a mulberry source closer to my new home and can’t wait to indulge in these urban-foraged finds again this summer.
