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They’re really both a blessing and a curse. The half a dozen blueberry bushes we have at the base of our driveway produce so many berries that we can make jams and cobblers through the early summer and even freeze some, but it does require picking them. And that is the rub.
It always seems to be an all or nothing prospect. One day there are hardly any ripe. The next day you have to spend two hours in an attempt to make a dent endless berries
Today, for example, I must have picked five or more pounds of blueberries. It's such a tedious process: as you move to the next section of a blueberry patch, you notice hiding just behind the smallest of leaves a cluster of four more ripe berries that you didn't notice when you were in that section of the blueberry patch. So you're constantly picking and repicking, checking, and rechecking, moving left and right, up and down. Throughout each blueberry bush. Throughout the entire patch. Until you're certain that you have checked the same section at least half a dozen times.
Then K comes home from work and her portion of the work only begins. Transforming those sweet berries into lovely jam, takes the entire evening. We will enjoy throughout the winter months, but she doesn't enjoy them now.
Finally, there's a certain sisyphean element to it: no sooner do you finish picking one round of bright berries and the next batch ripens to rich, dark blue, and you start all over again.
