blueberry morning

    The women in my family are not early risers. We also don’t like to sweat all that much. So if there’s anything we want to do outside in the summer, we face a real conundrum. It’s not that much cooler or less humid in the mornings than midday, but the sun is dimmer so it feels less like hell.

    Growing up, my mom would take us to this pick your own blueberry farm about 15 minutes from our house. We would beg and beg and beg to each pick our own gallon (which was six dollars, y’all). My mom would tell us that was too many blueberries, but we would get our way. I would eat the hot, sun-cooked berries right off the bush. And then I would eat my whole gallon by myself over the next couple of days and shit purple for a week.

    My sister and I are both home for a couple of weeks this summer. We got ourselves out of bed at a quarter to 7 this morning to go pick our own gallons. Our mom begs and begs and begs us to just split a gallon, but of course we have no intention of listening to her. We still get our way, especially because now this is our very own money and we are grown-ups.

    My sister navigates. We pass the church her ex-boyfriend’s parents used to own, and there’s a black and orange for sale sign in the window. We pass the fire station that’s its own landmark in these parts.

    There are a half dozen cars already parked at the farm, and I am furious. How did these people beat us? This place has only been open 20 minutes. Even when we rise early, we are not the earliest risers. We can hear the turkeys going crazy, making loud turkey noises. (Do blueberries go with turkey? What about a sweet and sour gastrique?)

    The woman who’s been there my whole life explains the deal, tells us it’s eight dollars a gallon now, which is still grade-A cheap for blueberries. She explains what a gallon is, gets out a ruler to show us what it means to fill up to the top of the bucket but not over. My sister and I nod, desperate for her to like us, even though we both graduated college with 4.0s and know what “gallon” and “level” mean.

    There are too many people here already. We walk to the shorter bushes in the back. The man who lives there tells us to look for the branches that are drooping, grazing the ground, full of round ripe berries. He shows us how to pick them, and it’s exactly what you would expect. You just pick them off the bush. We nod some more so that he will like us too.

    I camp out at this one bush that has berries that taste extra good. I know this because I am shoveling handfuls of them in my mouth, just robbing this small business blind. In my defense, I always tell myself that I’ll underfill my bucket to compensate. I never do. They’re just too good, and they’re best straight off the bush when they’re warm. It’s not the same as a cooked blueberry; it’s its own special thing. A warm blueberry that’s never been kissed by cold, only kissed by the Mississippi sun.

    My sister takes longer than I do, selecting only the biggest berries. The biggest ones I find never make it to my bucket. I make myself sick on these beauties. We agree that blueberries are hands-down the best fruit of all time.

    On the drive home, my sister navigates again, a gallon of blueberries in a plastic bag spread over her tan legs. We pass a yard with three flags, one American and the others identically confederate. Come on Eileen comes on the radio, and we pass a field of cows. I have a stomachache.