Holly A. Heyser
Mulberries. Until recently, a mere mention this tree would get me going. I hate mulberry trees. They'll conquer your yard and are nearly impossible to kill. Mulberries can send out suckers in all directions, sprouting new trees even if you chop down the main trunk. What's worse, those that do fruit produce boring, low-acid fruit not worth eating.
Such was my belief for years. I had a mulberry problem in my yard when I lived in Fredericksburg, Virginia, and it was about that time when I got it into my head that the berries were no good. I can't exactly remember why, other than I must have eaten some very, very ripe fruit.
These days, as I rehab my torn Achilles—still weak after five months—I've taken to walking around my neighborhood more. Last week I detoured into a little park near my house. I'd been there before, and had not noticed much worth remembering; a few good oaks, but that was it. This time I heard starlings congregated in a corner of the park. They were on a tree.
It was a mulberry tree, and it was loaded with berries. What the hell, I thought. I was in mid-walk and it couldn't hurt to pick a few for a trail snack.
Now there is this great episode of The Simpsons where they flash back to when Homer and the town drunk, Barney Gumble, were in high school. Barney did not drink at all then, and was set to attend Harvard University. Homer brought over some beer. Barney demurred. Finally, Homer convinces him to drink one. Barney's eyes light up. He shouts, "Where have you been all my life?"—and finishes the rest of the six-pack.
I felt like Barney. These mulberries weren't at all insipid. No, they were tart and sweet and irresistible. And I am betting no one knows that this tree exists, tucked in a quiet corner of a little park.
Ever get one of those "I've been here before" moments? That's what happened to me as I was eating those mulberries. Unlike most of my déjà vu moments, however, I can remember the details of this one. When I was a boy, I used to play in the woods behind my elementary school in New Jersey, and right at the edge of those woods stood a mulberry tree. Put me there right now and I can walk you right to it, if the tree still lives.
Looking back, I am sure lots of people knew this mulberry, but at the time it felt like the secret larder for me and my friends—in between "playing Army" or some such, we would gorge ourselves on mulberries, which I remember being ripe just as school was ending in late June. The day after my discovery, I returned to the park with a plastic container and picked three cups of mulberries in about 10 minutes. I also saw that more would be ripe in a few days.
Mulberries don't all ripen at once, and they ripen from a light crimson to a deep purple with reddish undertones. Mulberries are always redder than blackberries. And the trees are easy to recognize: they are the only thing in North America that looks like a "blackberry tree." The trees have a light-colored bark and lightly serrated leaves with prominent, light-green veins.
There are several varieties of mulberry in the United States, including a native American mulberry. Colonists brought over the Chinese white mulberry centuries ago because we thought it might be a good idea to try to raise silkworms, which love these mulberries. Sadly, the worms all died. The trees did not. And by all accounts, the fruit of the white mulberry does indeed suck—no acid at all. I have never eaten one, however, so tell me if your experience is different.