A Sip of Summer

by Prof. Hill

The sun beats down, summoning tiny beads of sweat to the back of my neck.  My hands are stained a bloody red, augmented by the July light. The further I wade in, the more the sharp tiny snares catch my skin. Despite the constant scratches, I persevere.  After all, I’m on a mission, and I’m determined to reach my treasure.  I awkwardly hold back a long, snaking branch in my right hand and twist my left underneath to where the bounty awaits: three more sweet, juicy, perfectly ripe berries.  No – four. Five! Definitely worth it, I think, clutching them gently in my palm and just ducking to miss the chain reaction snap! of a branch toward my face as I retreat. 

            I drop the berries into the quickly-filling colander and look up.  It is a blue sky, white cloud day, and in a tiny moment of silence, the buzz of busy insects creates an audible murmur in the still, humid air.  I look down at my hands; the little splotches now drying to a deep pink are accented by a thread of blood, a battle wound thanks to the scratch of the bush’s claws.  Up my wrist, another scratch has settled in, this one thanks to an attempt at dressing Boo in doll clothes. The scratches are hardly an imposition, though, and more a regular part of the summer dress-up routine: just another necessary layer to add to my wardrobe of bathing suits and towels, flower crowns, long “prairie” skirts, and bare feet.

            The rustle of branches breaks the hum and RaeAnne appears from the other side of the bushes, a handful of berries in her hands. 

“Look!” she sings, holding out the handfuls she can barely contain in one hand, and then squeals as a berry tumbles to the ground. I rescue the fallen soldier and grab the colander just in time for RaeAnne’s handful to pile in. 

We don’t even need to speak to know what comes next, communicated instead by a look at each other in best friend agreement: it’s time for a treat.  “Where’d my sister go?” I ask, but before RaeAnne can think of an answer I begin shouting, “Liiiiiiii-iiiizzz!” making her single-syllable nickname ring out as two.  “Where aaaaaare you?”  Out there, surrounded by the field and the horses and the river, there is no need for indoor voices; in fact, they prove rather useless when trying to locate a tree-climbing sister.

“I’m coooooming!” she says, her voice being met with the rustle of trees.  The peach tree behind gives a shudder as she plops down onto the grass below and emerges with three rather decrepit-looking peaches in hand.  “I got these,” she says. “They’re the only ones that were ripe, except one way up top that I couldn’t reach.”  For Liz to be unable to reach, you know that peach must’ve been hiding out in the tippy-top branches, as the perfect peaches are aught to do. 

“We can cut those up,” I say, as Liz reaches for a berry from the colander in my hands.  “Hey!” I cut in.  “You can’t eat them all.”

“Ugh!” my sister groans with an eye roll.  “Let’s go inside.”

Of course I can’t blame her for sampling some berries; they are better than any candy: ripe and sweet and fresh.  As we set off toward the house, I sheepishly follow suit myself, popping a few berries into my mouth when no one’s looking. With each bite, summer comes pouring over my tongue. Beautiful, free, fresh-air summer.

We parade into the house, Boo following at a safe distance, curious to see where we’re going, but not curious enough to risk another run-in with kitty dress up.  The hot gravel on the driveway reminds us that we’re leaving the grass carpet and makes us hop on tiptoe until we’ve reached the other side.  Tucker emerges for a pat on the way in, rustling out from under the bushes that fan the door.  Mom is in the yard raking leaves, but we scoot in before she even realizes we’ve left the yard. 

The familiar hollow sound of aluminum clanks against the latch as the screen door ushers us into the house.  We pause for a quick wipe off our feet on the mat.  The concrete and tiles of the garden room floor are cold on our summer feet, and I can’t help but feel a twinge of worry as I notice the damp prints left behind by our footsteps.  I hope they disappear before Mom notices.

We shuffle into the kitchen.  Liz crouches under the stove to pull out the heavy glass blender and situates it on the counter.  I hold the colander under the faucet as RaeAnne turns it on, the pink water draining out from the berries, which quickly turn into a mush as their hot sun swell explodes. 

As the berries dry, I peek into our old wooden rewired icebox refrigerator for some additions.  I procure a bottle of raspberry ginger ale from the back of the top compartment while RaeAnne squeezes through and pries open the freezer to the left.  “Ooo!” she squeals. “Vanilla ice cream!” 

We grab the scoop and fill the blender.  A scoop of ice cream, a handful of berries, a splash of ginger ale. Repeat.  We all work together but barely need to confer because we’ve made similar concoctions so many times before.  Liz puts the cap on the pitcher and presses the “Frappe” button, the sound jarring the kitchen’s otherwise cool peace.

            As the blender bubbles to a stop, Liz pops off the cap before it has fully settled, calling forth a gurgle and splash.  The sweet smell of raspberry fills the kitchen. “Mmmm,” we all say in unison, and then break into a peel of giggles at our unintended jinx.

            “Let’s try it,” I say, grabbing three spoons from the drawer. “Mmmmm.” We giggle again, even louder this time.

            We pour our concoction into four cups and then head for the door.  “What should we call it?” muses RaeAnne. 

“Summer Spectacular!”

“Raspberry Dream!”

“Heavenly Raspberry Dream!”

“Hey, we forgot the peaches!” I realize, though none of us mind; the raspberry whatever-it-is is truly a drink of the gods.

Mom can’t miss us now, as we march out the door and up the winding path.  “Want to try our creation!?” I shout out before we’re fully within earshot.

“Mmmm.  What did you make?” Mom asks. 

“Raspberry Surprise!” I say, handing her the glass. 

            “No, Raspberry Spectacular!” says RaeAnne.

“Mmmm,” she says again. We all feel the same way about fresh-picked summer raspberries.  She takes a sip.  “Delicious, girls!  That is certainly spectacular.”  Rake in hand she looks at us and raises her eyebrows in motherly fashion.  “Is the kitchen a mess?”

“Nooo…” Liz says.

“We’ll clean it up after we have our drinks,” I add.

We spread a towel on the pool’s edge and sit dipping our feet into the pool water. Liz reaches down to scoop up a dragonfly that has landed on the water’s edge. 

“Mmmm,” is all we can say. 

The cream and berries on that hot summer day come together in a taste I can only describe as “childhood summer.” It is seldom now that I taste a perfectly fresh raspberry, but when I do, it’s a mouthful of July on the Merrimack River.  Add a dash of gingerale or a hint of ice cream, and there we are, bathing suits and wet ponytails, calloused outdoor feet and swingsets, teepees, and tractors.  Another sip and there is the laughter, the sweet scent of fresh-mowed grass, our red-stained fingers.  We are content and free and so happy, a feeling that I sometimes find myself craving alongside a mouthful of Raspberry Spectacular.

Raspberry Spectacular!

Ingredients:

2 pints fresh raspberries

2 cups vanilla ice cream

3 cups raspberry ginger ale (or ice or yogurt or milk!)

1. Pick fresh raspberries

2. Wash the fresh raspberries

3. Layer a scoop of ice cream, a handful of berries, and a splash of whatever liquid you’re using into the blender.

4. Blend on high for one-two minutes. Adjust ingredients to reach desired consistency.

5. Pour into glasses and take outside.

6. Have a sip of summer. J