Blueberries on the Scale

So, chapter 2 of the blueberry saga. Since I have convinced myself you come here because I have Opinions, today's post will be entirely made up of Opinions. What did I like about the day at the blueberry farm? What was less than my favorite? Get yourself a cup of coffee, because this is going to be long.

This time was on Pearl's clock when we left the House on the Corner. Saturday morning, people. It was Saturday morning and I was already in the car at 7:26. And I didn't even have the satisfaction of knowing we'd left on time, because we planned to leave at 7. On a blueberry scale of 1-10:

This is me trying to find the blueberry patch. Yikes! This place is so remote that it does not have an address. Do you understand what I'm saying? I couldn't even input the address on my phone and claim technological failure when I couldn't find the place. Navigation R Not Us. Blueberry rating of ease of finding the farm:

Nothing says you're in the country like sharing the road with a cow. I loved this cow. It made me feel like a complete pioneer, a hunter-gatherer with air conditioning and non-functioning GPS. Fortunately for the cow we were hunting and gathering blueberries and not hamburgers or she might have been speeding up a bit. Blueberry rating of the cow:

The blueberry farm itself was astonishing. There were no mosquitoes, folks. No bugs of any kind, in fact, unless you count the bee that was buzzing around and well, you know how I feel about bees. Lance and Elizabeth, the owners, personally gave us instructions on how to pick the berries, since we were complete novices. You don't really pick them; if the blueberries are ripe they practically fall off the stem into your hands. It's a caress, maybe a fondle, but not a pick that yields the ripest blueberries. Also, did I mention no bugs? Blueberry rating on the facilities:
 

Okay, in the interest of truth and justice and the American way, I must admit that blueberries ain't cheap even when you provide your own stoop labor. Persons such as myself who are accustomed to fruit costing 19 cents per pounds (bananas, on Tuesdays, in 1987) will gulp just a little bit at the price. When the sun was at its peak and we were beginning to get a little swoony Husband pointed out that if he had stayed in the office and billed out standard rate he could have earned, let's see, carry the two and multiply by...well, significantly more than we saved by picking our own, and that doesn't even count the cost of gas and lunch. At that point I batted my (sweat-dripping) eyelashes at him and asked "Yes, but what is fair market value on a full morning with a beautiful woman these days?" and he realized he'd gotten a bargain. Blueberry rating on the price:

And later that evening, when Husband stuck a fork into the juiciest, tartest, sweetest blueberry pie ever, he forgot all about the morning he could have spent at the office. Pie trumps economics every time. Blueberry rating on the day:
 


We'll do this again.