OK, our secret is OUT!! We found our thrill on Blueberry Hill!! Congratulations to Dawn King for the winning guess on yesterday’s post, although maybe some of the rest of you thought that we might find blueberries on our mountain-climbing adventure. (By the way, I loved all the suggestions of what we might find! Made me think that the world is filled with infinite possibilities…)
We crested to the top of our mountain and discovered plant after plant after plant filled with wild blueberries. In the beginning of July!! This is unimaginable. Blueberries don’t usually grow fat and ripe and sweet and juicy until the end of July, or maybe during the first couple weeks of August.
It was like we hit the Jack Pot! The thrill of the Huron Mountains! Awesome find!
We knelt solemnly and began to pick the fat ripe berries, laughing in amazement. Blueberries! Who would have thunk?
Of course the first problem which presented itself: where the heck would we store our blueberry treasures? How would we get them home? We looked at our two water bottles and nodded wisely. We drank lavishly and rapidly, combined the two bottles into One, and then proceeded to fill the empty bottle with mountain manna.
Oh, and we at a few, as well. Who wouldn’t?
Hours later, at home, I remembered our bottle of blue gold. Dumped it into a bowl and cleaned the fruit. Discarded the stems. Washed ’em. Placed them gingerly and reverentially in the refrigerator.
Still marveling: blueberries!
What to do with them? What to do with them?
The thought of blueberry pancakes began to over-rule the sensibility of eating handfuls or sprinkling them in cereal. We must have blueberry pancakes. Whole wheat cakes laced with tiny slivered pecans and wild blueberries. Topped with real maple syrup from our Upper Peninsula trees.
Yes. The blueberries knew where they wanted to be. Sprinkled atop pancakes sizzling in the grill. Yes.
We still marveled: we found wild blueberries!
We came. We ate. We digested.
We rubbed our stomachs in satisfaction.
I thought about a blog title.
“Hey, Chris, how do you like this title? We found our thrill on Blueberry Hill!” (Of course, you all know this is a famous 1940’s song, don’t you? Click here to hear Fats Domino. Oh delight! As good as the blueberries themselves…)
Chris raised his eyebrows. In disbelief, I’m sure. Surely I wouldn’t put such a title on this blog? Surely not, Mom?
OK, I didn’t. Really I didn’t. Half the title, dear son. For any of you who want to read about our early morning trip to the airport and my sentimental mom-feelings, please scurry on over to the Simply Here blog and read the post Breath.. That’s my writing blog, the blog which attempts to describe in presence-filled language what’s happening.
Our first-born now belongs to the West Coast once again. He’ll bring memories of wild blueberries from Lake Superior mountains to the surf and deserts of Southern California.
Chris, we miss you already! Come home again soon…