It took every speck of willpower I could muster not to pop that baby in my mouth the moment I found it.  But it was too beautiful, too perfect, too wonderfully enormous to sully in that way.  I wanted to admire it for a bit, brag about it a lot, and force my companions to concede I was the champion berry picker.

My partners in grime for this escapade are pretty cute don’t you think?

That’s my friend Julie (from left), my friend Johnna, and Johnna’s daughter, Paige.  Julie discovered the berry bonanza in one of her father’s pastures and convinced us to go along for the ride.  Literally.  Julie is nothing if not ingenious and she figured us a way to pick berries with the least amount of exertion.

It starts like this.  First you dress up in long pants and shirts and grab some sturdy gloves.  (Be sure to douse yourself in bug spray as you’re dressing.)  Then find a couple of buckets.

Next, hop on a flatbed truck and drive to the bush of your choice.

Backing into the bush allows lazy pickers like us to sit down on the job.  It’s not bad work if you can get it.

Julie’s mom, Betty -- one of the best cooks in these parts -- promised us a cobbler if we brought in a batch of berries.  A few minutes into our picking, Paige took one look at our bucket

and exclaimed “Do you know how far we are from a cobbler?!”

Turns out we had to visit several bushes to pick enough berries.  We picked past sunset and while the farm hands labored continuously, I enjoyed taking artsy photos of their silhouette against the night sky.

By evening’s end, we delivered a pretty impressive haul to Betty’s kitchen table.

Two days later, she delivered not one but three cobblers -- one for each J.  Betty, I fell in love with your culinary skills more than 30 years ago when I first tasted your chicken fried steak.  But today, your blackberry cobbler makes you a cooking goddess in my book.

Eat your heart out, dear readers.