Blueberry Season

Every year about June, something happens in our house. I can sense it coming when the air gets hot and lazy, and the chickens sit on the ground instead of pecking around in their yard. I can see it as I see the summer leaves coming onto the trees.

It is coming.

It is here.

Blueberry Season.

I’m not sure how I gained my intense dislike for the flavor of blueberries. I used to like them. But something happened when I was small, something I can’t remember, and now I detest them. What makes it difficult, however, is that I am the alone.

Everyone in my home looks forward to Blueberry Season. They relish the idea of cold, crisp blueberries in pies, cakes, muffins, biscuits, waffles, pancakes, cobblers, and coffecakes. They like the huge bags of purple-blue berries in the freezer, and soon after a picking, flock to the kitchen to make their culinary conquest.

But what of me?

Oddly enough, even though my family loves to eat blueberries, they aren’t too fond of picking them. I understand, of course. Hot sun, fire ants, thick shoes, heavy buckets, clouds of insects, scratchy bushes, branches stuck in hair. I understand how those things are discouraging, because I’ve been there. I’ve even experienced guard dogs and all sorts of obstacles. But when it comes down to actually picking, my brother and I tie for most efficient. It doesn’t seem to register in my mind that each berry I pick means another blueberry-tainted dessert that I will have to pass on.

So in reality, I’m doing it to myself.

I like that my family likes blueberries. I like that they can now enjoy the harvest they (and I) worked to gather. I like that the sudden pour of berries inspires them to great things and new ideas. I like that. But I do not like blueberries.

So every year, right after the picking, it comes. All the normal desserts and breakfast items, like pie or pancakes, are covered with the berries. And every year I find a way to either eat them or eat something else. After about ten years of it, my family has caught on. But I can’t help it. I eat them sometimes, but as little as possible.

I’ve tried, of course. This is rather inconvenient for me, you know, and for the others. I try to like blueberries, for their sake (and for the sake of that pie) but I can’t. It’s not the only thing in the house, and frankly, if I take a piece and dislike it, then someone who actually loves it can’t have one. It isn’t worth the risk.

So now pie is on the table (blueberry, of course) and I content myself with memories of ice cream. They are enjoying their treasure as a family. That’s worth going without coffee cake.