Today we picked berries. In Oregon, berries represent the very best of summer. We get spoiled here, with all the varieties available, most of which come from the incredibly fertile Willamette Valley just south of Portland. As I've grown older, I've come to appreciate the joy that comes from visiting the farm and picking the fruit, not just eating it. Today's outing with Bill, Rose and her friend, Lauren, drove that home for me again.
We brought back nearly 20 pounds of blueberries, almost 10 pounds of blackberries, several pounds of beets, some kale and a new blackberry plant (where we'll put it, I don't know, but that's another story . . .). We also managed to get lots of stains (hands and clothes), two full tummies (guess who?!), and a well-rehearsed monologue about picking only the darkest, plumpest fruit (although the girls seemed to appreciate the "really sour" green ones too - I bet!). There were conversations about bees (and how they like fruit, not girls), about the merits of quality over quantity in berry picking, and how, in fact, imperfect berries can taste just as sweet as their perfect cousins. There were comparisons of the "sparkliness" of the pink yarn in their matching sweaters (the benefit of moms who like to knit together) and the perkiness of the pigtails in their hair.
More than anything, it was a great day to enjoy good friends, sunshine and the rich sweetness of a late summer day. We'll be reliving these memories for the next several months as we eat the now-frozen fruits of our labor. Evan, who chose to stay with his friend, Will, reading and whittling wood ("like a couple of 80-year olds," said Will's dad, Kirk), was pleased that he would get to enjoy the benefits without the "boring" task of picking.
His loss.
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