Blackberry cobbler. That's what I smell. That's what I taste, in the back of my mouth, where a seed or two is still stuck between my molars.

I just pulled the cobbler from the oven. My cousin, Kim, and I made it as a reward for the team berry-picking efforts of the day. Dad rounded up the troops, armed with cut-off milk jugs and dressed in jeans to defer the thorns.

Kim is visiting from Tennessee, where there aren't many fire ants. And according to her, no ant bite like the one she got a few days ago while we were decorating for Connor's graduation party. It swelled to about two inches in diameter and got red and itchy, so naturally she was a little apprehensive about more ant encounters.

"It's no big deal," I told her, "All you have to worry about are a few berry briars, cows, snakes, wild hogs, mosquitoes, thistles, and cow pies." "Remind me why I'm doing this again?" she asked.

We reached the aluminum gate, which we had to climb over, and Ethan said, "Ladies go first, but they're not wearing skirts, so I'll just go." And he did. I only wear skirts twice a week or so, but apparently Ethan sees a difference.

The cows didn't appreciate our intrusion to their sunny pasture. In fact, when we made it down to the lower pasture, they silently followed us, creeping in around us with stealth unnerving in a beast of that size.

But then, I've always found cows unnerving, ever since I was old enough to lay awake listening to their far-off mooing at night when the windows of our old mobile home were open. Very freaky for a three year old, let me tell you. I had cow nightmares. But I've probably already shared that before.

But the creeping cows...they eyed us with contempt but did nothing really menacing. Mostly they disliked the dog, I think, who felt it his duty to chase them off if they got too close to his people.

The best berry spot was a patch of little bramble islands, each one full of dewberries (yes, I've been calling them blackberries, because they're so similar, but they're really dewberries. Just sweeter and closer to the ground.) So it was WWII in Japan all over again, with us hopping from one island to the next. That's a horrible thought, actually.

Nearly every "island" was situated around a thistle, which pricked much worse than a berry bramble. And wouldn't you know that the best berries were tucked right under the thistle leaves. I was down on my knees hunting out the berries, attacking almost, getting a sunburn, smooshing berries into the knees of a decent pair of jeans.

I'm very reluctant to go berry picking, because I know this is how it will be. Once I'm in, I can't seem to stop. I'll be the last to go, but probably the last to come home. Except Dad.

Finally, part of the crew headed back with most of the berries and Dad and I explored another pasture. We weren't going to pick anything, just check to see what there was. But there was that one bush...loaded with shiny berries...and we couldn't just let them rot. There was another patch, and another. But we soon we were wandering back home through the pastures, with me a little disoriented and Dad knowing just where we of course, thank goodness. Glad it wasn't just me and the skulking cows.

Kim and I made the cobbler, with berry patterned aprons on and everything. And seeing as there was that bit of extra crust, and a drizzle of berry juice, and a cookie sheet to bake it just to flaky perfection...we've been have a little preview snack before the real cobbler this evening. Hence the berry seeds behind my teeth. Amen.