I am a woman obsessed. Always. Obsessed with fiber, and the myriad things that can be done with it, obsessed with the landscape of Western New York, Obsessed with my shop, my pets.... and for the last two weeks I am obsessed with raspberries, dark, black raspberries. They are full of anti-oxidants, they are sweet, tart, and flavorful, best shown off either warm from the bush, or in dark, sweet black raspberry pies. My freezer holds nine quarts of the things, near the rhubarb and the strawberries that await in suspended animation for the months where they are none-too-available. My husband, believing he was doing good, took down some of the still-laden bushes. I simmered. I saw in the freezer the space for those quarts .... unfillable. I share, of course, with the birds who originally brought us these bushes, and I share with Cinnamon, the golden retriever who came to us last year, already almost five years old, and as quirky as we are. Cinnamon harvests raspberries herself, standing with me as I pick, taking whole low-growing clusters into her mouth and rumbling them there, so that the ripe fruit can drop into her mouth. She will, of course, take a berry from me if I offer, but she seems contented to forage for herself, leaving a stray red hair here and there clinging to the thorns of the bush.