R-Rated Mulberries

The mulberries march on. I am deep in the throes of mulberry juicing, almost at the point where I have a full canner load (seven quarts) to can and get all that juice out of the refrigerator. Our refrigerator is valuable real estate; six quarts of juice take up way too much of it.

But then those damned sheep got in my way again.

See, when the mulberries are coming, I make A. lock the sheep out of the ram pasture, where the mulberry tree is. The sheep LOVE mulberries. If they're in there, they eat all the mulberries that fall. Plus, they shit on my tarps. Even I, lax as I am about hygiene in many cases, find that to be less than hygienic when it comes to food. So they are exiled during mulberry season to the other pastures.

However.

The grass is getting tired in the other pastures. And the sheep, though clearly fat and not at all deprived, are convinced they are starving to death and must get in that ram pasture RIGHTNOW.

They've been breaking in. To eat my mulberries. And shit on my tarp. Wretches, the lot of them.

It's been stormy a fair amount of the time for the past few days, and I don't gather the mushy, waterlogged mulberries after it rains, so I ceded the ram pasture to the sheep temporarily. But yesterday was sunny, hot, and dry. Perfect for mulberries. That's why I suggested to A. that he should let his sheep out to roam in the evening, after A. was done with work and could wander with them. Then I could get to the mulberry tree to spread out my tarp and whack the tree to collect my berries without the interference of those pesky sheep. Good plan. Except A. decided to let them out right at 5 p.m.

At 5 p.m. Cubby and I were hanging out in the lane eating black caps and thinking about going inside to finish dinner. I was not prepared for mulberrying. But the sheep were out, so I had to go in. I handed Cubby off to A., raced into the house to grab my little berry baskets and the ladybug shoes (best shoes EVER for mulberrying--no stains!), and hoofed it to the mulberry tree.

That's when I realized I had not changed my shirt and really didn't want mulberry stains all over the clean shirt I was wearing. I could have gone back to the house to change, but that would have wasted precious time.

So I took my shirt off and hung it on a bamboo branch while I gathered.

It wasn't exactly like a photo shoot for a "Hott Country Girlz" calendar or anything, however. I mean, I was wearing total Mom shorts (Dockers, for God's sake), hideous yellow shoes with little ladybugs all over them, and staining my hands purple as I scooped up mushy mulberries. Not so hot. But it's not as if there was anyone to see. And I did keep my shirt clean.

And now I have enough mulberry juice to can. Success.

Edited to add: A. brought to my attention the fact that it was not perhaps entirely clear that I wasn't all bare-chested. I was still wearing a bra, and therefore I was covered at least as much as your average person wearing a bikini. An item of clothing I never actually wear, myself, but the point remains. It wasn't all that exciting, is what I'm getting at.