All Tim had to say was, “I dreamt about the blueberries” and I knew exactly which ones. We’ve been getting boatloads of blueberries from all manner of small pickers this summer. They’ve been extraordinary, in taste and in abundance. But the other day, we got a small box delivered. It was taped shut and left on our ice freezer out back. I finally opened it to use them on some pastries. We ended up shoving two pounds worth of juicy blue orbs into our gaping pie holes instead of putting them to some productive use. They were inconceivably luscious.
Maybe it was the outrageous snowfall we had this past winter. Maybe it was the outrageous rainfall we’ve had this spring and summer. Either way, the elements have conspired to gift us with a bounty of berries that I’ve not yet experienced in my years as a Vermonner.
As an aside, for you flatlanders i.e. non-Vermonners, “Ts” are traditionally swallowed in the green mountains. To wit, the word mittens, as in “Dear, don’t forget your mittens! It’s downright blustery out there!” is pronounced “Mih-ins” in our fair state, as in “Kid, it’s wicked cold. Pull on some mih-ins."
Anyway, it’s getting to the end of what’s come to be a “wicked awesome” berry season. And they’ve just been getting better and better with every delivery. I’m not yet ready to go back to those jet setting fresh fruits that come around in the winter from South America and New Zealand. I’m more interested in hearing about their travels than eating them, because while they’re always beautiful they’re never as sweet or lush as the fresh Vermont berries plucked in season.
So say a little prayer to Demeter, ask her very nicely to hold back the fall harvest and the falling leaves and give us a few more weeks of summer’s bounty.