Every summer we pick blueberries at a farm about a 45-minute drive from the inn. Two evenings each week they have live music in the blueberry fields so you can enjoy the concert while you pick. We take a picnic dinner, pick a ton of blueberries, and then gorge ourselves on blueberry pie, Belgian waffles, and other treats for a week before freezing the rest. A blueberry pie made from berries you picked yourself is a wonderful reminder of summer in the middle of a cold New England winter.
Blueberry picking is one of the highlights of our summer.
This year, we put off picking until Michael's parents were here. We figured we might not get quite the number of quantity of berries we usually get, but the farm had scheduled concerts for a full week after his parents' visit, so we felt confident there would still be berries, and we wanted to share the experience with them. I checked the web site last week, and all looked good. We planned to pick tomorrow.
I logged on this morning to confirm the hours, and discovered that the season is over! Yesterday was their final picking day. They didn't even have last Thursday's evening music.
Does it count as summer if we didn't go blueberry picking?
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Speaking of blueberries, we think we are dressing H. as a blueberry this Halloween -- she has now had several mornings in a row where she cried after breakfast and the ONLY thing that makes her stop is more blueberries.
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