Nature doesn’t wait.
Berries don’t magically save themselves for when it’s most convenient for you to pick them.
Two weeks ago, after sleepy weather and rain, the temperatures rose. It was Friday, and we had plans to go to a friend’s farm to pick strawberries at the beginning of the following week. However, that morning, Julia came downstairs and told me that if we didn’t get out to the farm that day, the berries would succumb to the heat; the opportunity would be lost. We put aside our plans for the day, jumped in the car, and drove out of Northfield, past endless fields, eventually reaching the farm. It was scorching hot–my t-shirt was soaked, my hands and knees itched with bramble scratches, my neck was sticky. But I ate a strawberry breakfast as I picked, amazed at the abundance of little ripe red fruits. My thoughts wandered to the 5$ I had shelled out for a carton of Dole berries just two days earlier. I wished I could pick them all; seeing the rows of berries we would not be able to get to seemed such a waste.
So we came back the next day. It had rained overnight, and already you could taste the difference in the berries–the burst of red seemed more subdued, yet they were still delicious and sweet in a way that store-bought berries will never be able to achieve, no matter how large they are. I will never underestimate the beauty of labor, and the feeling of a truly earned reward after a hard day’s work.
Jars of jam, berry pies, tarts, smoothies, or just by themselves–a movable berry feast.
After Hours 