domestic dilettante, humorless feminist shrew

The internet, it seems, is in love with magic berries. As it turns out, so am I.

My idea of magic berries doesn’t quite mesh with the internet’s berries of magical sweetness.

We’ve been basically ignoring the lawn in the back of our house–first because it’s mostly weeds, and then because no one but us sees it. When Nick was outside today, though, he noticed these.

I have no idea what they are. Strawberries were mentioned (though not by me) and dismissed. These berries are strawberry-shaped, but smaller than the fingernail on my middle finger. They’re covered in bright pink drops, almost like bloated strawberry seeds.

I know that the people who had this house before us were gardeners. At one point, it seems that much of the backyard was garden. (I hope to reach that point myself before too many years pass.) These could be berries left from when they were actively cultivating the backyard. On the other hand, they could be random berries that bring death to humans. I’d rather find the death-to-humans thing from the internet, not from the doctor telling me I’ve a week to live.

If nothing else, they’re pretty.