We headed out as a group to the seven-acre field. We parted the black-plastic netting that completely covered the field and protected the berries from the birds. We soon dissembled and found our own quiet places to forage.
The black netting above scraped my sun hat as I walked between the rows of blueberry bushes. Some bushes were as tall as me and too big to wrap my arms around. Others were small and only had a few branches. However, there seemed to be very little correlation between the size of the bush and the number of berries.
Years ago, when Mr. Wolfsen started this farm, a friend assured him that he would become a millionaire. Although he’s not a millionaire, the business does well. Two-thirds of the business is U-pick, and the other third sells to local grocery stores, restaurants and cafes. When I thought about the $4.99 pint of blueberries I had seen in the store last week bearing the Wolfsen label, I felt I was getting a bargain by picking the berries myself.
I crouched down and settled. Blueberries are tough and aren’t as messy as most berries. I plucked them from the branches and tossed them in the bucket. They crinkled the plastic bag as they rolled down the edges. Soon my eyes became accustomed to another world. Underneath the leaves of the bushes were European Snails, an invasive species that feeds on plants and decaying matter. The large snails were difficult to pry off the leaves and were the size of golf balls. Others were no bigger than a pin head and were nearly translucent. Eventually, I ignored the snails. On organic farms, one must learn to accept the pests. One must work around them and the produce they damage.
I picked and ate until I was satisfied with my bounty. I walked along the rows, my hands trailing the netting overhead. The palm of my hand and fingers turned black from rubbing the netting.
I found Devin eating most of the berries that his fingers grabbed. “These blueberries, right here, are classic.” Devin said indicating the bush he was grazing from.
I stood next to him and grabbed one. Simultaneously, we each dropped a berry into our mouths. Then we were silent as we contemplated the idea of the classic blueberry. The flavor was subtle but distinctly blueberry – the ideal blueberry flavor. As Devin, Erin, Jeff and I ate our way out of the field, we found sour berries, tart berries and sweet berries. We had each collected roughly a pound. We paid our dues and drove home.
The next morning I pulled the berries out of the fridge and leafed through my recipe box for the index card with directions for my mother’s pancakes. After I had mixed the batter, I carefully dropped the blueberries in the bowl and gently swirled them around. Some of them squished and their purple juice bled into the batter. Eventually only the blue-purple dots interrupted the golden landscape of each pancake. As I ate my breakfast, I thought about my new berry-picking memory. I recalled Wolfsen Farm, their strange house, and the black netted bushes that grow classic blueberries. I smiled, knowing that I was eating well while supporting a local farmer. That thought satisfied me even more than my pancakes.
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