Picking Blueberries

My husband, an engineer, could have been very happy as a farmer. He loves to be outside, to plant, and to make our yard beautiful. This benefits me in many ways, mainly because I get to enjoy the beautiful yard. I love to watch the hummingbirds (that he feeds), smell the flowers (that he plants), and use the herbs (that he weeds). Sometimes our yard provides a special treat. He has planted apple trees, plum trees, peach trees (I think), strawberries, raspberries, and blueberries. Usually the local deer and rabbits eat almost all of the fruit before we (and by that I mean he) can pick them. 

I am not a yard working person. I have tried. When we first started living together I made what I think was a valiant effort, but I really don't like gardening. It's just not... comfortable. You have to get your body into odd positions to reach, and it's itchy, and prickly, and dirty. Often it's hot... or sometimes cold. It's just not my thing. I'm always a little jealous of people who love gardening and find it relaxing. 

Yesterday as I was walking down to get the mail, I noticed the blueberry bushes on the hill. For some reason, the birds have completely ignored three or four bushes this summer, and they are covered with blueberries, some small and green, but mostly fat purple ones. I was surprised to see them so full, and I thought that someone should pick them. But someone was at work. I ignored them, feeling a little guilty.

Today they were still there, sitting in the sun, looking even plumper and juicier, waiting to be picked. The weather was nice, not too hot and not too cold, and the bushes seemed to be at an easily reachable level (no kneeling in the dirt required), so I grabbed a colander and headed out into the wilds of the front yard. While I picked, I had time to think. A lot of time to think, it turns out. Here's a sample of my inner blueberry picking monologue:

Wow! Look at me! I'm picking blueberries!

Am I really, actually proud of myself for picking blueberries? That's kind of sad.

Holy cow, there are a lot of blueberries here!

Was that a bug on my foot? I think it was a bug.

78, 79, 80... Why am I counting? When did I start counting? Did I even start at zero?

Ugh. That one was sticky. 

At least blueberries don't have thorns. 

I hope blueberry bushes don't have ticks. Ticks just live in the grass, right?

I'll have to do a tick check when I get in.

Man, there are a lot of berries here!

What in the world will we do with all of these berries?

Maybe I should bake something.

Ooh! Scones! I love blueberry scones!

Katy won't be home until Saturday. Nobody else likes scones.

Muffins? 

Muffins are a pain.

That was definitely a bug. 

As long as it's not a tick. 

I really have to do a tick check later.

I don't think I've ever heard of anyone getting ticks blueberry picking, have I?

Maybe I'll make blueberry coffee cake or blueberry buckle?

What the heck is blueberry buckle anyway?

Blueberry buckle, blueberry buckle. 

Would it be weird to bake something just because it's fun to say?

32, 33, 34... I'm counting again! Why am I counting?

This should be zen. Maybe I could get really calm just picking.

Nope. I'm bored. 

There is NO WAY that I am going to pick all these berries!

I should probably leave some for the birds, right?