Aside from a mutual love of berry picking, I doubt I have a lot in common with the mother in the classic children’s book “Blueberries for Sal.” For one, she dragged her young child along with her to pick berries in the woods, while I left mine with his grandmother in order to get some much needed time alone. Sal’s mother plans to can her blueberries for winter and repeats this fact multiple times in the short book, to the point that it becomes annoying. Me? I plan on making a blueberry pie, blueberry muffins and maybe just eating some tremendous handfuls in the style of baby bear. You won’t find me wasting these precious, tiny, tasty berries on canning. I want my reward for the tedious labor of wild blueberry picking and I want it now — or at least within a few days of the hours I spend picking.
As a kid my mother use to drag me with her to pick strawberries at a local farm. My memories of this tradition involve back breaking work in the hot July sun while horse flies buzz around my head and bite big chunks of flesh from my arms and legs. I’m fairly sure it wasn’t that bad, but I know for certain it wasn’t a favorite childhood activity and it felt like torture. Like most kids, I did not appreciate the strawberry pies and jam my mom would make with the fruits of my labor. Now, as an adult with a love for baking, I have a new-found respect for the hard work that goes into berry picking.
There’s something wonderful about using your own hands to gather the raw materials for an amazing kitchen creation — namely pie. I had this in mind when I recently set out to pick wild blueberries while I was home visiting my parents in the Keweenaw Peninsula of Michigan. My husband and I have a patch of strawberry plants and raspberries growing in our backyard and take full advantage of the berries they produce, but it has been years since I picked wild blueberries. Growing up, I spent a lot of time at my friend Kristin’s family’s camp along Lake Superior where a lot of wild blueberries grow. We’d spend some time picking berries, but our attention spans were fairly short, so we did more blueberry grazing than anything else. Now and then I’d pick enough blueberries to bring to my Grandma Norma, who would in turn take the berries and create one of her delectable pies. Ultimately, memories of her pies would be my motivation to pursue the challenge of wild blueberry picking once again.
The harvesting of wild blueberries is certainly the Everest of the berry picking world. I am reminded of this when I reach the picking spot recommended by Kristin’s mom Jill. “Damn, they’re so much smaller than I remember,” I think to myself. I walk along a sandy, logging road that is bordered by short pine trees and a flat swampy area. The day is overcast and gloomy, with a slight on and off again drizzle. Aside from some pesky mosquitos, it’s perfect picking weather. The ground is covered with ferns and lichen, and of course, wild blueberry plants.
As I start to pick, it feels like forever before the bottom of my little plastic white pail turns completely blue with the tiny berries. The plants are very low to the ground, so picking requires constant crouching. I try to spy patches plentiful with berries, but as time goes on, I find I’m being less careful about avoiding the leaves and the tiny stems that come off with the berries.
“I’ll worry about those later,” I think to myself.
I spend about two hours walking along the road and then back again toward my car all the while picking. Along with my berry pail, I carry a small bag containing bug spray that my mother thankfully reminded me to bring, and some ziplock bags to fill with my excess berries. I was overzealous and packed three of the gallon sized bags. I was way overzealous. Once my bucket is nearly full, I transfer the berries into one of the ziplock bags and what I picked fills about half of the bag. Following one little spillage accident, I wasn’t going to chance losing anymore berries. The only thing more tedious than picking blueberries is trying to pick-up spilled berries from the underbrush on the ground.
Two hours of picking and I do not see or hear another person. The only thing I hear are crickets chirping and the distant sound of Lake Superior waves hitting the shore. My mind wanders and I think about how theraputic the berry picking experience feels. Picking the tiny berries requires a lot of patience and restraint. As your bucket goes from being half-empty (or half-full depending on your temperament) to teeming with berries, you feel a great sense of accomplishment and begin to really look forward to your reward, your motivation . . . the pie you haven’t tasted since you were a child.
