The modern world seems designed to squeeze joy out of every corner of life—then package it, price it, and sell it back to you in plastic clamshells. But they still haven’t found a way to put a barcode on the pure, sticky-fingered happiness of eating a ripe berry right off the bush.

Blackberries are the unruly squatters of my neighborhood. They’re invasive here, muscling into vacant lots and strangling native plants with thorny determination. Every autumn, I clear them from the southwest corner of my yard, and every spring they rise again like some fairy tale villain.

This should make me resent them, but honestly? I love a weed. I, too, have been called prickly and stubborn. I respect any life form that refuses to give up.

The best thing about foraging blackberries is that you’re basically committing an act of ecological sabotage against a plant that would happily take over the planet if left unchecked. Picking them is not just allowed; it’s your civic duty. Fill your buckets, stain your hands purple, and revel in the fact that you’re robbing this botanical brute blind.

Of course, one can only eat so many blackberries at once without risking a berry-induced sugar coma. I freeze them by the gallon bag for smoothies and winter baking. You can turn them into cobbler filling and jam if you’re one of those saints who enjoys canning. Blackberry juice is, to me, far too syrupy to drink straight – though if you want to pretend you’re a Victorian child with a cough, go ahead – but it’s heavenly in cocktails or with a splash of sparkling water.

And don’t sleep on the leaves. You can dry them for tea, or brew them into a face wash that makes you feel like you’re starring in a woodland witch commercial. The tea is light, sweet, and supposedly good for your kidneys and immune system—which makes sense, because this plant seems incapable of dying.

With tariffs kicking in this week and grocery prices climbing faster than a blackberry vine toward your gutters, spending an hour every weekend picking free food from the margins isn’t just good for the soul; it’s a small, spiky middle finger to the systems that want you dependent on them for every bite. Take the berries, take the power, and don’t forget to bring gloves.

This was originally posted on my substack blog. Follow me for extreme underconsumption, urban homesteading, and other writing