It was past time for the blueberry run. Our frozen blueberry supply almost made it the whole year, but the freezer ran dry two weeks ago.
Problem was finding a block of time to do it. I was starting to worry the blueberries would be all gone before I found a pocket of time to get down there.
I needn't have worried. Plenty of berries to go around.
Blueberries as far as the eye could see.
The twenty-two flats I picked up—only 9.5 for us—didn't made a dent in the supply.
But no boys with me today, for the first time ever. Girlfriend, work, promise of pool time, in that order, were more important. I didn't even have my trusty green truck to go with me. It was busy picking up siding for the barn, so I took my dad's little Ranger instead. The traditional twist from the White Dotte Dairy Bar didn't taste quite the same in everyone's absence.
Secondo did want to come with me, desperately, but he has so many demands on his time these days that we couldn't find a slot. He was the first one to polish off the ceremonial first pint, however, as soon as I picked him up from work.
Now to find the time to wash and freeze 9.5 flats of blueberries.