Blueberries

At the end of the summer, after a sad roommate-less week, my roommate for the school year moved in. Before she began her ten-meeting-a-day schedule, we went blueberry picking. Armed with various containers, we drove out to Grisamore Farms where we found that we were close to the only people there. Which was fine with me.

Soon after arrival, I made the discovery that farm blueberries are different from wild blueberries. I’ve picked wild blueberries in Maine before, and the bushes are short and low to the ground while the fruit itself is rather tiny – around 0.5 cm in diameter. Farm blueberries, on the other hand, are about twice that diameter (so volume scales up by 8) and the bushes are slightly taller than I am. Also, compared to the wild blueberries I picked, the berries we picked grew much denser on the bush. We stayed for about an hour and I picked between two and three pounds of blueberries in that time.

I ate my way through a good portion of the berries before I got around to baking with them. They were delicious, and now that we’re transitioning from pre-winter to winter in the northeast, I miss fruits that aren’t apples, pears, bananas, or oranges. (On the other hand, winter means cranberries, which means cranberry bread, which is also delicious.)

Anyway, I made the pie crust recipe that I usually use for apple pies and consulted Google to find a blueberry pie filling recipe, and made mini blueberry pies. Yes, also delicious, and yes, I like sweet food. Sometimes I eat dinner solely as the necessary precursor to dessert. I am currently accepting baked goods and quantities of small, unmarked bills at- Just kidding. Points to take away from this post: I went blueberry picking. I ate blueberries. I made blueberry pie. I ate blueberry pie. Send me baked goods.