“The blue’s but a mist from the breath of the wind, a tarnish that goes at a touch of the hand…”- from “Blueberries” by Robert Frost
Today I am spending Sunday in one of my favorite ways: listening to the blues and dealing with the 20+ lbs. of blueberries we picked this weekend. Bessie Smith and Lightnin Hopkins keep me company in the kitchen while I package berries for the freezer, and wait for a batch of lavender Blueberry Muffins
to come out of the oven (the heady scent of lavender fills the room and is delicious). I flip through the recipe box and pull out cards tabbed “Blueberry Crumble,” “Blueberry Salsa” (haven’t been brave enough to try that one yet, but maybe this year), and “Grandmother’s Blueberry Pie,” which I discovered is the same as the one on the box of tapioca, but it certainly sounds tastier than if labeled “Blueberry Pie off box of tapioca.”
We pick at a local blueberry farm and I set aside a vacation day each summer just to spend filling bucket after bucket with the sweet blue marvels. We joke that they should weigh my daughter before she heads into the field to pick, as it’s one fruit that everyone in my family solidly agrees upon and I never ever have to ask them twice to eat them.
“Nine below zero” by Sonny Boy Williamson comes on, and I laugh and tell my kids about the pet fish I had named Sonny Boy Williamson. They think that’s pretty weird. “Yeah, so are you,” I tell them, “Have a muffin.”