I was greedy. I admit it and am unapologetic. When we showed up at Grandma Lou’s house in Moultrie to pick blueberries, the site of all the ripe fruit hanging from those trees made me salivate. It was a hot, hot day and sweat was literally pouring from us as we picked and picked and picked some more, but I just couldn’t seem to stop.

I really like blueberries, but it was more than that. Firstly, there is just something special about engaging in a ritual like this – picking fruit with your own family from the same vines/bushes/trees/orchards year after year. Lee grew up picking these berries every summer, and while I didn’t grow up on that farm I have similar memories of picking blackberries at my grandparents’ home. Great memories.

Secondly, I didn’t want to stop picking because I really enjoyed watching Camille making memories of her own. She ate more blueberries and huckleberries than she put in her bag, but that’s the way it’s supposed to be. There were so many connections being made – between herself and her familial roots, between herself and the source of a favorite food, between herself and the great outdoors.

So we picked until we just couldn’t pick anymore, and we were well rewarded for our efforts. We picked 12 pounds of blueberries along with a quart or so of huckleberries. We’ve eaten a ton, we’ve shared some with friends, we’ve frozen some for later.

And we’ve made some fantastic recipes: blueberry pie (thanks Mom!), blueberry pancakes, huckleberry orange bread and huckleberry margaritas to name a few.

Very satisfying, in so many ways.