A sharpened stick, zombies, Prince, and a gamble of an infused vodka

Abundance: Sunday 20 July 2025

Once upon a time, a man was expected to leave the house armed with little more than a sharpened stick hoping to return some days later dragging the carcass of an auroch on which the family might feast for months to come: this weekend, the modern equivalent; I emptied and defrosted the freezer.

Unbeknownst to me I have - seemingly for months, and yes, in some cases years - been living alongside an almond Magnum, a litre of exceptional olive oil and tarragon ice cream, an unlabelled curry, three slices of bread of the hardworking sort, an auroch’s worth of cooked chicken leftovers in assorted containers, numerous pie fillings, pink gooseberries saved in case I needed to reshoot a recipe out of season, blackcurrants frozen to make topping and tailing easier and then forgotten, a pair of pairs of kippers, 5 gluten free fish fingers, around 700g of medlar pulp so that at any point I am always only 90 minutes or so away from medlar sticky toffee pudding, and 817g of mulberries, picked in summer rain.

It occurs to me that a list of freezer contents might double relatively well as an obituary. It’s also a conveyor belt of promises to the future. A list of promises, it’s fair to say, that in part ended up in recycling through falling to the back of my mind’s notice, covered as they were in an avalanche of overestimated fillings and good intentions in food bags.

That 817g of mulberries is insurance against a year without: what if I break an ankle and am unable to pick, or unseasonal frosts do for the crop, or the zombie apocalypse takes the form of mulberry loving Frankensteins intent not on my flesh but on the finest fruit there is?

I’ve written before about Otter Farm starting with a planting list that read ‘Mulberries’ - these heavy, plump, dark, succulent berries are a good part of why I’m here writing - and in a not-so-much-leap-as-step-off-the-kerb of faith, I’m going to trust that the big tree in the park, and the handful of younger ones by the river that bisects this town will provide in the next few weeks.

For anyone who hasn’t eaten them, mulberries’ flavour lies at the heart of a Venn diagram including blackcurrant, blackberry, a deep red wine, and raspberry with a sprinkle of sherbet thrown in. That’s only so close, but it’s driven you to the right flavour post code at least.

They are here largely due to the dimness of a powerful male¹: King James I, in his enthusiasm to start a UK silk business, imported mulberry trees - white mulberry leaves are the silkworm’s favourite dinner, after all - only he imported thousands of black mulberry trees. The delicious swing to the unsilky roundabout is that so many estates and historic houses in the UK have a mulberry or two still thriving in their grounds, even where those houses are now public, and - thanks to the tradition continuing - even the grounds of large buildings that followed, such as Devon County Council’s offices, have mulberries ripening as we speak.

A little scrumping while visiting a historic house or complaining about your council tax bill is very likely your best way to get a sneaky taste of the fruit. And the national collection is held in the gardens of Buckingham Palace.

Whether picking in your garden, while collecting an OBE, or scrumping in a public space, dress like Prince - in purple² - or go in your birthday suit. At the very least wear scruffs. Pick only the very darkest berries: a little of the finest-flavoured is so much better than a larger harvest of under-ripe.

I’m not up for fannying around with mulberries unless I have the hugest harvest - give me them raw, eaten as they are, like the very best sweets; give me a larger harvest, and I’ll make ice cream or sorbet, or possibly a summer pudding. And so with the Pakistan mulberries long gone from our garden tree, I wait for the foraged ones for a week or two longer, and I’ll risk using these 817g now and trust the future.

Mulberry and lemon verbena vodka

I wanted to make mulberry vodka³ this summer partly - mostly - to take a moment to better remember Pat in the best way I can, when the vodka she introduced me to reaches its perfect point. This variation is partly

Lia Leendertz

’s fault: I was in conversation with her at the frankly astonishing Charleston House, as part of their Festival of the Garden, and she asked me to describe the flavour of a mulberry and I remembered the sherbetiness it has; we talked about lemon verbena shortly after, and I spoke about how much the scent if that of sherbet lemons - this morning I wondered if the sherbertiness of one might enhance the sherbetiness of the other, and brought them together in what I hope will be a holy alliance. Christmas will tell.

Makes around 2 litres

817g mulberries
1.7 litres vodka
200g caster sugar
60cm lemon verbena

In a 3 litre jar, stir the caster sugar into 500ml vodka until it is at east trying to dissolve. Add the mulberries, lemon verbena stems and the rest of the vodka.

Leave it for a few months, inverting the jar once in a while to encourage the sugar to dissolve and the fruit to let go a little more of its loveliness into the alcohol. Decant into a wide bowl, catching the fruit and herb in a sieve⁴.

Funnel into bottles and - if you can - allow to mature in the bottle for a month or two longer; over time it will mellow and develop, but really, it’s not easy to resist before it has the chance to.

1. They are not a new invention

2. Yes, I know it’s not factually correct that he always wore purple, but there was a time when he did…

3. Depending on your persuasion, apologies/you are welcome for having recipes seasonal infusions for two weeks in a row

4. Don’t throw away the boozy fruit - it makes a superb and sleep inducing dessert