BOOK:|:KITCHEN

I've been foraging for raspberries in my local park over the past three weeks. They're sweet, but with higher acidity than store bought ones. And check out the color: beautiful, vivid ruby. Like jewels they glisten. To hold in the palm, they're airy and fluffy, yet so taut with juice in each tiny orb, that the attention to the outer surface beauty only matches the goodness within, once popped in the mouth.

I am fortunate. These natural snacks grow wild in my local park: Inwood Hill, the last remaining natural forest in Manhattan. It also contains the city's last salt marsh. Funny story: After telling a very envious friend of my wild raspberry foraging adventures, I brought him a quart, freshly picked from my morning's run. He gushed with gratitude, then asked if the berries were safe to eat. Mildly shocked, I responded yes, that I did wash them, as I assumed he would immediately snack on them. Naturally curious, and unable to shake the shock of such a question (a native New Yorker nevertheless!), I asked what he meant by "safe." He answered, "Well, I thought about pesticides. Could they be sprayed with pesticides?" I quickly retorted, "No. Only food that we *pay* for is sprayed with pesticides." Little chuckle. But often true.