The Sweet and Sour Memories of the Piney Woods

There are some flavors you never forget, flavors that don’t just touch your tongue but linger deep in your memories, wrapped in the warmth of childhood and long summer days. Growing up in the Piney Woods of East Texas, my world was filled with the wild sweetness of nature, the tang of adventure, and the comforting scents of home-cooked goodness drifting from Momma’s kitchen.

Blackberries & Snake Spit

Blackberry patches were everywhere, along the roads, in backyards, and in the fields between our house and Granny’s. The bushes were wild and stubborn, their vines twisting and weaving together, daring us to reach past their thorns for the dark, plump berries hiding within.

There was always this strange white bubbly stuff clinging to the vines, and when I asked about it, Momma’s warning was swift and sure:
“That’s snake spit! Be careful!”

That was all I needed to know. I didn’t question it, I just kept my eyes peeled for slithering shadows in the grass. Years later, I learned the truth, it wasn’t snake spit at all, but the work of tiny spittlebugs, making frothy little nests to protect themselves from the heat. Momma probably knew that, but keeping us wary of snakes was more important than a science lesson.

Still, no warning could stop us from picking buckets of blackberries, our fingers stained deep purple, our bellies filled before we ever made it home. The sun had warmed the berries, and with every bite, their juices burst like tiny explosions of summer, sweet and wild and perfect, well except for the red ones that weren’t quite ripe enough yet! By the time we stumbled back inside, hands, faces, and even tongues splotched with blackberry stains, we looked more like we’d been caught in a berry fight than a berry patch.

The Fig Tree Feast

Behind Granny’s garage stood the grandest fig tree, heavy with fruit, its branches so full that even the birds couldn’t keep up. We would pluck a ripe fig, split it open with sticky fingers, and let its tender, honeyed flesh melt in our mouths.

Some afternoons, we’d sit right beneath that tree, peeling fig after fig, eating until we couldn’t take another bite. But no matter how many we devoured, we always picked a whole bowlful for Momma, knowing that meant one thing: fig preserves.

The moment she set a batch on the stove, the house filled with a scent so rich and comforting, it felt like love itself simmering in the air. When morning came, there was nothing better than warm biscuits, slathered with butter and dripping with thick, golden fig preserves—a taste so sweet it could erase every trouble in the world, at least for a while.

The Honeysuckle Hunt

Not all our treats came from the fruit trees and berry bushes. Some were hidden in clusters of tiny blossoms, their fragrance soft and sweet, almost teasing as the breeze carried it through the air. Honeysuckle.

We knew exactly how to unlock its magic, gently picking a flower, pinching the end, and slowly pulling the delicate thread from its center. And then, at the very last moment, when the tension was just right, a single drop of golden nectar appeared at the tip.

That one drop was pure sugar on the tongue. But one drop was never enough and sometimes, we would pull a dry stem and pout until we picked another one. Each flower was a surprise, you never knew if a drop of sweetness would be there or not! Maybe the bees beat us to it! We’d go flower to flower, plucking and pulling, chasing that fleeting taste over and over again until the bushes looked like they’d barely survived a storm of greedy hands.

Sourweed & the Thrill of a Pucker

Not everything was sweet and golden, sometimes, we craved a different kind of thrill. That’s where sourweed came in.

Growing wild in ditches, fields, and any untamed patch of earth, sourweed was the original East Texas candy. We’d pick the long, slender stems, pop them in our mouths, and chew. The first taste was sharp and tangy, twisting our faces into dramatic puckers before settling into an addicting, lemony zing.

Better than pickles. Cheaper than candy. And best of all? It was everywhere.

The Flavor of Home

The tastes of my childhood weren’t just about food, they were about moments, about adventure, about finding sweetness in the wild and ordinary places. They were the freedom of barefoot summers, the laughter of berry-stained siblings, the warmth of Momma’s kitchen, and the love that came not just from what we ate, but how we shared it.

And even now, when I taste a sun-ripened blackberry, a spoonful of fig preserves, or a drop of honeysuckle nectar, I’m not just tasting food. I’m tasting home.