Before my Dad got his allotment we used to go fruit picking. There were lots of pick-your-own farms near us. The farmers would joke, before we went in for strawberries or raspberries that they should weigh us. They were probably right because we would leave with red berry juice smeared around our faces and permenant stains on our T-shirts. We also picked peas and then spent the rest of the day in the garden shelling them half into bowls and half into our mouths.
Gooseberry picking was never so much fun. They grow on prickly bushes and are a little tart for a child to eat straight from the bush. That didn’t stop us trying, which led to an afternoon of gripey tummy pains and frequent visit to the loo.
Despite all this, we loved them. We called them goosgogs and loved the puddings mum made from them for the few weeks of the season.
Goosgog crumble
Goosgog fool
Goosgog pie
Goosgog meringue
Goosgog cobbler
And finally to remind us of the beginning of July
Goosgog Jam.
Is it wrong that I’m wildly excited about my first pot of goosgogs?
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