Monday, April 20, 2009

A poem to a blueberry

I like them. I was invited to pick the end-of-the-year leavings after all the crowds had come and gone from a blueberry farm near Bastrop. I expected to pay. The owner-lady and I spent about two and a half hours, chatting and picking, discussing life and finding the berries. When she washed and put them up into bags, I was floored by the offer of the berries. We loved them and treasured each culinary delight made with them. I will likely never forget her generous gift.

Enjoy this poem if you like the berries. Or maybe if you just like poems. It is presented as part of Garrison Keillor's daily offering for a recent day.



  1. Yum, indeed! Long ago, we took a Prevention-Magazine-sponsored walking tour of New Brunswick, Canada; while going from one stop to the next, the caravan pulled over, and we were ushered into a blueberry field that stretched for miles. We picked until we dropped, and the berries were made into pies by the owner of that night's B&B. Snarf!

  2. Wow. Rolling hillsides of them would be overload.

    Two springs ago I went to a fellow's house where we used to live. It was out in the country and he had about 20-30 LARGE boysenberry bushes with LARGE boysenberries on them. He irrigated them and weeded them. We picked 5.5 gallons of them and flash froze them for later use. Patti makes really, really, really good pies and cobblers!