Last Saturday I became this person my mother would never have recognized.

First I joined the Canoe Creek Community (backyard) Kitchen for a tomato session. With the help of canning guru Alice and three other helpers, I canned 20 litres of tomatoes for our pantry. Alice bought about 100lbs of Okanagan romas (that's probably 500 or 600 tomatoes, not that any of us were counting), and we five blanched, peeled and chopped until we never wanted to look at another tomato. We stuffed jars, rigorously shunning air bubbles, and then processed them in boiling water. Between bouts of blanching, peeling and chopping, we snacked on homestyle bread with a dried-tomato-garlic and olive oil paste provided by the amazingly kind, knowledgeable and generous Alice.

Then, just to enhance the get-in-touch-with-your-pioneer-ancestors spirit of the day, my husband Phil and I went blackberrying. Although we live in Vancouver and there are plenty of local places to pick blackberries, we choose to venture south of the Fraser river, because we've discovered this idyllic place with not only berries, but—if your timing is good—blue plums, apples and bunnies to entertain you while you pick. Sorry, as much as I like you, I'm not going to tell you where it is.

Phil loves to forage for blackberries, but even more he loves to climb the plum tree and shake it as the fruit tumbles down around my head, and some of it lands in the bowl I hold out (with hope and courage). Unfortunately we got  no plums at all on Saturday. There were lots of ripe ones already fallen on the ground and squished, but those still in the trees were awfully green. We stood staring up at the branches for some time, not wanting to accept this. And then Phil said, "I'm going to go pick some apples."

Now, for about three seconds this surprised me, because the apples are extremely tart and green and they go brown the instant you bite into them. I remember that in past years Phil has not been so impressed with these apples, although he's quite fond of eating the pies and crumbles they make. Still, I'm usually the apple-gleaner. But then I had my aha moment and realized that it had very little to do with collecting apples, and everything to do with a man's boyish love of climbing trees. And in all honesty that ancient apple tree is better for climbing than the plum.

And so we came home with several pounds of apples and a bounty of berries. And yesterday I made a small dent in both by baking a blackberry-apple crisp, with maple syrup and honey in the fruit, and a crispy oats-and-brown sugar topping. I'll make it again soon (because we still have loads of apples and blackberries) and will take a photo next time so I can post the recipe for you. Served warm with a little vanilla ice cream, it was a sweet reward for what was, in all honesty, a very pleasant foraging adventure—despite the thorns that scratched my hands and the spiders that found their way into my hair.