Blueberry Picking
Blueberry Picking
Coming home, summer, and blueberries
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We are back from our long RV trip in the South and enjoying getting back into the routine of home. Yesterday was my first trip to pick up our CSA share at Clark Farm in nearly a month.
For about five summers now, I’ve spent nearly every week at the farm, picking up our share of vegetables and walking the fields for pick your own produce. Most weeks, I visit on Saturday mornings. I find the sights, sounds, and even the smells of the farm a relaxing way to unwind after the work week. There is nothing better than watching the farm grow and change with each passing week, seeing dirt fields develop into plots of lettuce or berries ripen on the bush.
Yesterday’s visit was a bit disorienting as so much had changed since our last pickup in late June. The blueberry bushes, which were just starting to show some small berries last time had nearly fully ripened. So much so that we were invited to pick a quart of blueberries.
I love when blueberry season first begins, although I entirely missed it this year. It’s a magical time when the sun beats down hot for the first time in the summer, the earliest ripe berries require some searching to find, and filling even a half pint can take some effort because the berries are usually quite small.
My blueberry season this year didn’t involve the usual slow crescendo, but rather I stumbled in to a symphony that was already playing at a full forte. The bushes were practically screaming at me: “PICK ME!”
Sometimes when picking blueberries I need to move from bush to bush to adequately fill my basket. Not yesterday. I moved from bush to bush more because I lost interest and needed a change of scenery. I likely could have picked a quart off of just one or two bushes.
It reminded me of drinking from the garden hose as a young kid. The water flowed so fast that we would try to drink what we could, but it didn’t really matter if some spilled everywhere. Back then, we didn’t know about droughts, shortages, or watering bans. Hoses flowed freely for watering plants, running through sprinklers, and drinking. The water in the hose seemed as endless as the youthful summer days themselves.
Yesterday, if one or two berries fell to the ground accidentally, I let them be and didn’t give it another thought. Had I been here two weeks ago, I would’ve savored every little berry and picked up the ones that fell, gently dusting them off. But yesterday, the abundance felt eternal. I knew it was ephemeral, like the water in that hose, but the bounty fooled me into thinking the food wasn’t quite as miraculous as it truly was.
The sun stayed behind the clouds while I was at the farm, keeping the air cooler than when the sun beats down. The location of the blueberry patch on the farm is always hot and the sun always punishing. A cloudy day isn’t as scenic, but it’s more bearable.
Once I had my quart of berries, I walked out into the fields to pick some herbs and marveled at the sunflowers that were in full bloom along the main road through the farm. They towered over me, making me feel like Alice from Wonderland. Where did they even come from? I didn’t remember seeing them last time. Have I really been away that long and do sunflowers really grow that fast?
After picking my blueberries, I came into the barn to grab the rest of my share. Freshly harvested garlic hung from the ceiling, being cured for longer term storage. I think I got some garlic that had been dried in my spring share earlier this year, months after it had first been pulled from the ground. Letting the garlic cure makes that possible. I love that these farmers plan ahead.
I picked up my veggies and made sure to check in my favorite spot before leaving. The trade bin is like the “leave a penny, take a penny” of the CSA world. Folks can leave behind what they don’t want. Those who want more of something can take it.
I left behind an eggplant and picked up what my farmers call pac choi but what I think of as bok choy. There’s probably a difference, maybe subtle maybe significant, but I’m not sure what it is.
As I drove away from the farm, I realized that I’d never thought about how meaningful it is in my life and the rhythms of my summers. For the last few weeks on the road, I have been eating grocery store produce. I’m sure there are amazing farms or farmers markets somewhere in the Orlando area, but I didn’t have the time to do my homework and find them, so I ended up eating carrots and radishes grown in California and shipped to Florida.
In our travels, we try to seek out local farms and sometimes are lucky enough to stumble upon them unexpectedly. We stopped for fresh veggies at the Wardensville Garden Market in West Virginia on last year’s RV trip and I liked them so much that I still keep up with their activities on Instagram. (I also included them in my essay about West Virginia last summer). I didn’t happen upon any such place in Florida, though I wish I had.
I’ve been back at my house for a week now, but until getting back to the farm, I’m not sure I was quite home. The soil, the crops, and the air there have become a part of me. The farm provides nourishment for my stomach, but it also feeds my soul.
It’s good to be home.
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