Blueberries fresh from the field

The farm stand girl poured warm berries from the plastic cover of a deli platter into the small green ¼ pint container. Her blond hair fell around her shoulders as her stained fingers pushed the keys on the old cash register. “My grandma had a dog like that,” she motioned toward Rosie enjoying the air conditioning in the truck, “she loved ice cream, used to lick one side of a cone while my granddad licked the other. They had to put her down last spring, she was 19.” I gathered up the berries and a fresh tomato for dinner. “Does the dog want a treat?” I smiled and thanked her, she handed me two biscuits and I ducked back out into the sunlight.
The next morning, Keith poured berries into gooey pancake batter as I suggested it needed more water. He ignored me, as he had learned to do so well in 21 years together, and spooned thick globs of white on to the hot griddle. The smell of pancakes on the grill mixed with other camp cooking to create a symphony of flavors at the picnic table. Bacon from the sight around the corner, hardwood smoke, and salt air filled my senses. The blue berries caught my attention a couple minutes later, as I shoved a big chunk of syrupy sweetness into my mouth. The tartness exploded in my mouth, surprising me. After years of avoiding blueberries of any kind, these wild Maine blueberries retained their flavor and bite. “We can add the rest to oatmeal in the morning,” I mumbled as I relished the next mouthful.