Picking mulberries is not for cissies. It’s an intense
experience, as I found out. I was in a south London park going round and round
a mulberry tree, but there were few ripe berries. Meanwhile, I could see a
woman over the other side of the park working rapidly to fill a large container
with produce she got from another tree. This turned out to be a mulberry tree
(one I didn’t know about). It was laden… boughs bowed down with ripe
mulberries. I hesitated to intrude but Pary welcomed me to join in the picking.
She is from Iran and told me that there the mulberry tree is known as Shah Tout
(sp?) which means King of the Berries. She had fond childhood memories of
climbing the trees. ‘So good for cholesterol,’ she said, popping another one in
her mouth, a dribble of burgundy running down her chin. She comes often to see
the tree and to pay it respect. Before leaving with a bag full of the
almost-black berries, I asked to take a photo. ‘Not of me,’ she said, but
agreed to one of her hand. ‘Murderer hands!’ she said. My hands, sticky and
port-stained, took the shot.
