Musings on the almighty Blueberry

Growing up, blueberries were something that came frozen in a bag for most of the year. Once in a a while, my mom would get a pint of two from the store in the summertime if the price was good. We would each get a small amount, maybe in our cereal or in a bowl with a splash of cream. But it was over as soon as it appeared, and then we were back to the frozen in the bag, tossed into pancake batter or scooped in a muffin. Fortunately, my experience with them has come to maturity, and what rests in my freezer now are bags of freshly picked berries from my annual berry-pickin' trip.

For anyone reading this who happens to be blessed with living in my fair state, even close to the livable Twin Cities, I sadly pass on that I will not divulge my favorite and most bountiful berry patch, as I know it is already close to fanatical status with many, many berry lovers and I won't allow it to be overrun with just anyone. But come late July, the most anticipated piece of mail for the entire year arrives announcing the THE BERRIES ARE RIPE!!! All else falls away, the cats are ignored and supper goes unmade until I have my day in the sun with my berries. The drive alone is amazingly beautiful, curving through farmland and along the river through breathtaking vistas of high hills, mature trees and soaring eagles. I climb the steep road to the berry farm with it's 7-mile views, grab my basket and head out to the vines. The fruit beckons, glowing an ethereal snowy blue, in clumps of thumbnail sized clusters that weigh the vines to the ground. Two hands are cupped around the berries, and my fingers deftly pull the fruit free. Handfuls are gently laid in the bucket, over and over again I work, seeking the biggest berries and the heaviest vines. The basket fills, the sun beats down and the sweat trickles down my back. I am impervious to anything but filling my basket. Soon enough, I sit back on my heels and take note of what is going on around me. There is a Chipping Sparrow in the vine next to me making quite a ruckus. As I approach, it flies off and I spot the source of it's agitation....a small nest with 5 tiny eggs. She stays near, watching me and squeaking endlessly. She has no idea that I only want the fruit, not her babies. There are voices coming from other pickers, drifting over the gentle breeze that cools us and rustles the trees. My basket is half full, big fruit and small fruit, ripe with the snowy pallor indicative of their maturity. I gather a handful and press them into my mouth, biting down gently. The juice bursts forth, filling me with an alternating sweet, then sour, then sweet again flavor. It's like dam breaking free in my mouth, the soft interior of the berry teasing my tongue with it's pillowy texture. I am borne away, no longer sitting in the berry patch, sweaty and targeted by an agitated mama bird, but to the place where only a mouthful of manna can take me. For the brief moments that I am aware, where I am holding a mouthful of delectable blueberries, nothing else around me exists, my eyes are closed, my senses focused on the waves of pleasure swallowing me, as I swallow the fruit. I could eat the whole basket. But slowly regaining my sense of reality, I stand up and begin again to search out the biggest fruits, the heaviest vines and the bounty available to fill the blueberry desire in me. I must have enough to get me through the year until that coveted postcard arrives next summer. Ignoring Mama sparrow, and the increased intensity of the sun, I forage on. More fruit awaits, more pleasures to know, maybe another basket to fill. This is the one day of each summer where it's all about me, the blueberries and the sunshine.