So many blueberries.
It’s hard to quit picking blueberries. You know that the four big containers you’ve picked are more than enough to share with neighbors, make into smoothies, pies, and top your oatmeal, but as you try to walk back out of the field, it’s impossible to pass by the huge clusters of berries just waiting to tumble into your hand. You pick them (most go in the bowl, a few go in your mouth), and then attempt again to stop.
This is an annual affair. I look forward every year to pick at one of the prettiest blueberry fields outside of Portland. Just a few of us are invited to a friends and family early opening. The owner greets us warmly and joins in the picking. By 9am we’re done. The big farm table has two enormous blueberry buckles with a crisp, sugary topping. There’s coffee and cream served in heavy, stoneware mugs. The birds are singing, there’s a breeze in the air. It’s perfection.
The bottom photo shows my personal take. (My friend Mimi picked twice this amount.)
