Blueberry Pickin'

Michael loves blueberries. LOVES them. I, however, have to admit that until quite recently I was not a fan. I think the reason for this is due to several factors:

1. Blueberries at our supermarket are sold in very small quantities for what I think is a very high price.
2. They have tiny pits inside the berry that gets stuck in my teeth.
3. The blueberries I've eaten in the past have either been very tart or blandly tasteless. 

At church last Sunday, a friend of ours mentioned that she and her husband had gone to a local blueberry farm and handpicked their own blueberries. My ears perked up. I am very interested in local produce and in supporting local farmers. Besides that I knew that Michael would love to have blueberries stocked in our fridge and freezer. So on our Memorial Day Monday we set off on an adventure to handpick our own blueberries.

We drove out the the blueberry farm about ten miles north of our small town. Like a couple of green idiots we made it to the farm at about 11:30 am. Right in the middle of the 90 degree high of the day. I jauntily marched up to the nice lady sitting at a table under the shed, her hair being blown by an oversized oscillating fan.

"We're here to pick some blueberries," I said in a friendly, upbeat tone.

She took one look at my blue jean shorts, designer sunglasses, and just-fixed hair and said one sentence, "It's hot out there, honey."

I glanced at Michael, who was peering out at the rows of blueberry bushes baking under a noon sun. He looked at me, "We didn't really think about that."

Not to be deterred in our zeal to pick our own buckets of blueberries, we insisted that we would be fine, the heat wouldn't be so bad. The lady fixed each of us up with a harness, attached a gallon bucket to the clip to hang in front of our stomach, and pointed to a water fountain under the shed before sending us on our way. I'm not sure if the look she gave us as we walked away was one of pity or disbelief. Probably both.

Despite the smothering, suffocating, sweltering heat, (my hair was in a ponytail before we reached the first row) I couldn't help but be amazed and shocked really by how beautiful the berries were growing on the bushes. The ripe berries were deep bluish purple, the almost ripe berries were a light lavender, the unripe one were a soft bright green. The leaves were dark forest green, and the branches were a shady tan. I never knew that so many colors could exist on one berry bush!



The first thing I did once we reached our row (the lady said the farther into the field we went the more berries we'd find because most people stop at the first several rows; we of course walked all the way to the back) was pick a blueberry and pop it into my mouth. I wanted to see if standing in the heat for an hour with a harness and a bucket attached to me was going to be worth it. The first sun-warmed blueberry that burst open in my mouth sealed it for me. Sun and 90 degree heat or no, these blueberries needed to be in my home ASAP. They were that good: warm, sweet, and tender; like no other blueberry I'd ever tasted.

I think we were both rather satisfied with ourselves for staying out under the sun to pick our own berries. In the end we walked back to the shed with two gallons of fresh blueberries. Even though the price list said $10 per gallon, the lady sold them to us for $19. She said it was because we didn't quite fill the buckets up all the way, but I secretly wonder if she just felt that sorry for our pathetic little selves for picking in the middle of the day.



Not going to lie though, we drove home with the AC cranked on high. The first thing I made with our blueberries after walking in the door? An ice cold blueberry smoothie for us both.

Another snack I've gotten pretty used to eating since Monday- a spoonful of plain Greek yogurt and a handful of blueberries. Sweet, tangy, and healthy all at the same time.

Will we return to pick blueberries next year? You bet! Except we'll be there when the gate opens- precisely at 7 am.