You pick it and it feels warm in your hand. You look at it, and the colors are so perfect. Reds, greens, yellows. All swirled and striped together on nature's own canvas. The smell hits you as you bring it to your lips – sweet, acidic, floral, the smell of the orchard. That first bite is bliss – unbridled joy. It’s sharp and sweet, full of sunshine. Life. Nature. You want to savor that bite, especially that first bite of the first apple of the season.

It's that time again. I've got a gallon bucket and I'm on the hunt. It's a race with my sister, to see who can get the most the quickest. It's a hard thing to do, when all I want to do is eat. They're so good... but no. Into the bucket they go. It's a system, you see. Two in the bucket, one in the mouth. I've got juice on my hands, in my hair, and scratches all over my arms...

But my bucket is half full, and hers is only a third. If I win, I get the first pancake in the morning. Marie said so. Two more for the bucket, one more for me. Another few for me for good luck, and the next handful to the bucket. I throw a few at her to distract her, laughing as she throws some back. Soon it's a full on fight, and we're running, and they're flying, squishing on faces and arms and legs, on noses and between our toes. Everything is stained purple, but we know Dad will laugh and clean us off.

Dodging, throwing, tackling, falling down.. Eventually we're exhausted, and our buckets are both at a less than a quarter. Crap. Guess we'd better pick some more. After all, there's nothing like blackberry season in Oregon... especially when Marie is making pancakes in the morning.