Jul 19, 201105:07 PM
Exploring the South Shore one bite at a time
Celebrating the Blues
To some folks, ripe tomatoes and zucchini spell out summer in Massachusetts. But for me, the epitome of the season arrives with an email from Webster Farm in Norwell, announcing ripe blueberries. Picking is usually a late summer activity, but this year the message was delivered on an unheard of June 30th. One day later, I turned down the farm driveway and back into time.
In spite of the technology evidenced by the email blast, everything at Webster Farm is simple. Park in front of the shingled blueberry shed, grab a milk jug tied to an old necktie from a rusty nail hammered into the wall, and hang it around your neck. Read the directions scribbled on a white-board to find the best picking. Once you’ve procured your fill, return to load the quart containers provided by the farm with your harvest. Slip payment, via the honor system, into the metal strongbox attached to the wall. If you are early riser, like me, it’s possible that during your entire outing, you may not encounter another human.
You will, however, most certainly encounter other beings. On that early July day, I scuffed my feet through the sand on the farm road bordering the bushes, swinging my arms and drinking in the warm sun as a flock of geese in the adjoining cranberry bogs honked. A bullfrog harrumphed in the farm pond at the same time I spied a healthy sprinkling of ripe berries and a coyote, slinking between the rows. We stared at each other for long moments before he faded behind a bush.
A few deep breaths later, I admit to jumping when a blue jay shot chattering out of a nearby bush, again when a chipmunk skittered across the dry grass. All anxiety faded though, when I slid between branches to a bush, hanging heavy with fat, blue fruit. Scratching my arms, I picked two-handed until my carton was so full I risked spilling the contents. Less than an hour later, three quarts of succulent, plump berries sat in the trunk of my car. There are few things that spell out summer the way dessert did that evening—a blueberry crisp baked with a harvest plucked from a bush the same day, which vanished in less time than it took to pick the fruit.
That’s the thing about blueberries. The season is short and they disappear as fast as they come. So in a few days, I’ll return to Webster Farm. After all, I’ve got a blueberry pie on my summer to-do list, and a succulent blueberry bread pudding. But perhaps what I’ll enjoy most of all will be the quart or two I’ll pick for the freezer.
Sometime in November or maybe January—the taste of cool fruit will remind me of a hot morning in July, when I stood alone, a soft breeze ruffling my hair. I’ll recall my thumping heart after a close encounter of the coyote kind, and how I calmed myself by sampling the taste of summer, delivered warm from the palm of my hand. Webster Farm, 292 Cross Street, Norwell, MA
Liza Carens Salerno is a freelance business writer from the South Shore. She works part-time at a cheese shop and can’t decide which is more fun—working with food or writing about it. Liza blogs at www.middlepassages-lcs.blogspot.com.
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