Wild Raspberries and a Sacrifice

"Are you sure you're not stepping in Poison Oak?" the Somm asked me as I teetered in a good approximation of dancer's pose on a collapsing branch a couple yards off the walking path in Glen Park Canyon... one hand holding my bag of booty, the other outstretched for the glistening, perfect, purple berry just a centimeter away from my fingertips.

"Yeah, totally..." I trailed off. Got it! The berry joined its brethren in the bag. Roughly thirty minutes later, I had gathered around three cups of wild berries for the homemade chocolate ice cream I'd planned to make for my grandfather for Father's Day. We used to make ice cream together when I was a little girl, and Grandpa has always been a fiend for fresh fruit (as well as sweets), so I was excited to be making my own recipe of dark chocolate swirled with wild raspberry and blackberry compote.

Back home, I cooked down my triumphantly foraged berries with sugar and a dash of balsamic before mixing them into the chocolate custard.

The ice cream was a massive hit at my grandpa's nursing home the next weekend... and I kept quiet about the rash of itchy welts that had developed on my thigh...