inglés example sentences with "blackberry"

Why don't we make a blackberry cake?
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The loganberry, which is a hybrid of a blackberry and a raspberry, was accidentally created in the late nineteenth century by an American horticulturist.
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The tayberry is a cultivated cross between a blackberry and a raspberry.
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My future mother-in-law makes wonderful blackberry pie.
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The property was almost completely overgrown with wild blackberry bushes.
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The baker made a delicious blackberry pie.
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Tom has a Blackberry.
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Tom typed on his Blackberry.
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A blackberry picker picks 25 buckets a day.
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That blackberry was tart, but the others were sweet.
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Try to describe the taste of a blackberry.
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Still to come... buttermilk-fried bullfrog legs, braised wild boar with Himalayan blackberry glaze and Asian carp boulettes.
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Ziri left Rima some blackberry juice in the fridge.
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The was some blackberry juice on the kitchen counter.
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Ziri brought Rima a glass of blackberry juice.
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Ziri served us some blackberry juice.
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Ziri didn't put any sugar in the blackberry juice.
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Ziri added some water to the blackberry juice.
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Ziri's blackberry syrup was too thick.
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Ziri's blackberry syrup was warm and thick.
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Saturday's New York Times report said the hackers, who also accessed the State Department's unclassified system, did not appear to have penetrated closely guarded servers that control message traffic from the president's BlackBerry.
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She prefers her tea with a touch of blackberry flavor.
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We drank blackberry brandy.
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This is blackberry.
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After two in the morning, I was awake, trying to read an Interlingua book, Le torno del mundo in octanta dies, by Jules Vernes. But the lamp in the living room was too dim. I ate a few pieces of Italian round waffle-like cookies, pizzelle. I went back to sleep on the couch. Later, it was a drizzling morning, cold and clammy, this Boxing Day of 2024. I walked twice to the neighbourhood's Tim Hortons. Firstly, I ate two hash browns, whilst drinking an iced coffee with oat milk. Secondly, I ate a crispy chicken wrap with a glass of blackberry yuzu sparkling quencher. At both occasions, there were Eurasian children, and there were Filipinos that looked handsomely Japanesque. I was exercising with a hand grip strengthener at my table, as I counted to twenty in Esperanto, in each set: "unu, du, tri, kvar,..." In the afternoon, this Boxing Day of 2024, the sun came out of the clouds, the drizzle stopping for the while. An odd cabinet mirror stood by the sidewalk, so I could see my bare legs and mauve garden shoes in the reflection. I walked to Tim Hortons, there to drink an iced coffee with oat milk. The café was crowded. At night, I went back there to eat a roast beef and cheddar sandwich with an oat milk iced coffee. A brown family popped in to break the empty silence. A pensive white man said that I liked the word "blossom": Maybe, he was waiting for spring?

Today's the 9th of May of 2025. All day has been grey skies. After morning Iced Coffee with oat milk at Tim Hortons café, I went walking towards the Roman Catholic church on St. Albans Road, just so I could pass by the big tree that looks like a jacaranda tree with purple blooms, but isn't a jacaranda. (The species remind me of South America.) More of the brick-like impressions on the pedestrian have been painted white, not red as I would imagine. Lulu Islanders aren't so fanciful with colours, unlike Vancouver or other cities. I went to the major worship hall, again to admire the fancy colourful stained glass. The crucifix is adorned with white fabric. At the smaller Adoration Chapel, I began to notice on the right front the Virgin Mary statue with the Child statue on her side. In the evening, I returned to the café to enjoy a Green Tea with oat milk, a Blackberry Yuzu Lemonade Quencher, and a Roast Beef Craveable Sandwich. At home, I amused myself with Korean grammar, which was a slight distraction to my core studies of Esperanto and Lojban. With StreetView, I started looking again at the streets in South Korea. Maybe, I will try more of the countryside, as I have done with Thailand. For lunch and dinner at home was noodle dishes.

It's the 14th of May of 2025. It was my latest nighttime visit at Tim Hortons café, about 22:00. At a corner sat a familiar pale-skinned couple of Hispanics, chatting. As I couldn't hear their Spanish accent, I couldn't really guess from which country they came. The hall was mostly empty, except for them at one corner and me at another corner. Some Eurasians came in for a few minutes. I was drinking a Blackberry Yuzu Lemonade Quencher and eating a Cinnamon Raisin Bagel. It was dark in the streets, as I walked back homebound.

After 10 o'clock in the morning, I headed walking to Starbucks café, after I discovered that Tim Hortons café was jam-packed. It's Saturday today, so it's unusual. At Starbucks, I enjoyed a Grande Summer-Berry Lemonade Refresher. It was festively blue and red in colour with raspberry, blueberry, and blackberry flavours embedded with raspberry-flavoured pearls. There were this morning 5 baristas active: 3 Filipinos, 1 Vietnamese, and 1 Mandarin Chinese. I like it at Starbucks, too, due to the dimmer cavern-like ambiance. At the Clam Temple, I like the wide, vast emptiness in the worship salon. At Tim Hortons, I like the sun rays beaming from the bay windows. After Starbucks, I walked to the nearby Kin's Farm Market to buy a bag of 10 Mexican guavas, which were already yellow. I want to take pictures of them sliced and accompanying my tofu fish cuttlefish corn potato tangerine pork rolls from 852 Kitchen food boutique. I might wait until it's sunny on the verandah to photograph there. It's a cloudy day, this 14th of June of 2025.

It's Lulu Island, 3 August 2025. After supper—green figs tender with sunlight, sweet vinegar from yesterday’s pickled jar, and reheated Alfredo—I sat on the balcony and watched the conifer. Stillness below, a street without cars, without haste. My lime water, iced, caught the light. Michael, the Franco-Danish ufologist, has been in my conversations lately. We speak of inner things: the trance of smart devices, the mind’s eye dwindling. He says cafés aren’t cafés anymore. People forget how to look, how to linger. I tell him of Arthur in Japan—how he'd stare into blank walls like a monk gazing at emptiness. Lately I ask machines to speak like poets, and they do. They mimic Elizabethan verses and the old wistful lilt of Tagalog ballads. I pick blackberries along the path to Tim Hortons. "¡Moras!" I shout like a child. My friend Mora, whose blood flows with Andes mist, would smile. Today, I bought lemons. I meant limes, but lemons are all right. / blackberry morning— / a fig's ghost on my fingers / and the street still sleeps