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I am blueberry-rich. And I know I’m
lucky. Both my parents and my husband’s family grow lots and lots of
blueberries, so we can pick to our hearts’ delight. While I’ve enjoyed this
privilege for almost 20 years, my kids (twin boys, age 41/2) just discovered it
last year—and truly started, in their own way, relishing it this year.
So they get all kinds of excited
about picking, with much, much chatter about what bucket they’re going to take
or how many berries they’ll eat for each one they actually put in the bucket.
And when we get out to the bushes to pick, it’s always hot, no matter how early
we start, because, hey, blueberries happen in summer, and we live in a very hot
place. So the kids lose interest after about seven minutes. They’ll plop down
on the ground and just start shoving (literally) handfuls of berries in their
mouths and complain about the heat and tell me they just want me to make them a
pie.
But despite all that, I know (maybe I just hope) that they’re learning something valuable, whether they know it or not—that food doesn’t just magically appear in boxes or cartons on grocery store shelves, that people actually grow or raise food, people have to harvest it, and that no food is better than that pulled right off the branch or vine or plucked from the water. And that anything blueberry “flavored” can’t hold a candle to the real thing.
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