Berry Picking

Summer is short in New England. We acknowledge it light heartily, “Last summer was beautiful—sunny, hot, and dry—it was on a Thursday I think.”

When it arrives, you have to leap to embrace it because it will be gone before you know it. I wrapped my arms around summer last weekend by picking 15 pounds of berries.

The Troy, NH, orchard is at the base of Mount Monadnock. I had a full view of the mountain as I reached for ripe warm raspberries, which is a fragile berry to pick. The stem stays on the bush, the hollow casing of round red bubbles easily collapses with too much pressure.

I have a very poor safety record. My berry breakage rate meant I ate more than I kept.

I love the pleasure of popping a warm juicy berry into my mouth. A great accomplishment, I was the only one to ever think of it. Bright sun, high puffy clouds, and a light breeze transported me as I walked through rows and rows of bushes.

The blueberries branches, weighted down with clusters of massive berries, hung low into the paths. I imagined them to be grapes. I set myself in Italy, France, then the Sonoma Valley. Laughing voices tinkled from a balcony overlooking the orchard.

We captured buckets and buckets of berries: 14 pounds of blueberries, 5 pounds of raspberries. Driving home from pick-your-own orchards—no matter what the crop—it’s always the same response. “What am I going to do with all these …..?

A week later we are down to a half a pint of blueberries. I’ve scattered them on cereal, smoothies, yogurt parfaits, oatmeal pancakes, buttermilk pancakes, and our favorite blueberry coffee cake. I brought some into work, sent some to summer camp, and gave away a few quarts. Now we’re planning our next trip to Monadnock Berries.

Summer might be short, but I’m going to make sure I stain my shirt with evidence of its arrival.