The last time I wrote for this column, I was digging raspberry plants out of my friend’s backyard.

Weeks and weeks later, my plants are just starting to show the first signs of turning from blossoms to actual, probably-potentially-hopefully fruit.

I am admittedly behind on building a dedicated garden bed for them — kudos to that work/life grind I may have mentioned once or twice before — so they remain in their buckets, though carefully planted and watered and monitored to make sure they remain healthy and alive.

I am suspicious, however, that the buckets (and probably the trauma of being uprooted suddenly, though with as little violence as possible) are contributing to their apparent arrested development. Next year’s growth looks fantastic, and I’m optimistic that my four precious plants will yield a good amount of berries by then.

But also I want fruit now.

Thankfully, my friend’s yard, with its abundance of raspberry plants, brings an abundance of raspberries. And as with the plants several weeks ago, she called on me recently to alleviate her of some of the berries themselves.

I thought she was kidding when she said she had too many raspberries. I really should have known better by this point.

I stopped still at the gate to the berry patch and just stared for a good minute. She stood there and stared with me, even though she was well familiar with the sight before us, and we shared a silently commiserating moment of, “Oh my god that is so many raspberries.”

As with most days, though, I had other errands to run, so she popped the latch on the gate and we ducked under and through the thicket of raspberry stalks and got to work.

I collected at least three cups of raspberries in a borrowed bucket in under five minutes. She didn’t bother with a bucket, eating the fruit straight from the stems instead.

And here is where I share a bit of irony.

I don’t actually like raspberries.

Or I usually don’t. Before this summer, my only source of raspberries for several years has been the grocery store. Those are … passable. I’ll try one every so often but usually end up giving the rest of the container to someone else.

I have determined, however, that eating a fresh raspberry off the stem while filling a bucket with handfuls of the same, on the other hand, is something close to a religious experience.

I shared this revelation with my friend in the awestruck tone of, “Holy cow, these are GOOD!” She laughed at me. She was nice about it, but the reaction would have been warranted under any circumstances.

I went home with a bucket of berries and promises of more to come, and maybe even a jam-making day. My four plants are still slow to produce fruit, but the memory of my friend’s wildly productive berry patch gives me something to look forward to when I check for more blossoms-turned-berries.

Perhaps I’m taking Rousseau’s words a little too literally, but I find it true, that the fruit of bitter patience does turn out sweet.