When we were little, my parents used to take my sister and me cherry picking on an annual basis, and I remember those trips so fondly (except the time I lost my little springy crab toy). Even before Jessie was born, I already knew I'd do the same thing with my own kids. A few years passed, and this year I really wanted to make it happen. But instead of cherries, we settled on blueberry picking. No ladders to fall off of, no thorns like with raspberries or blackberries, and still small enough to gorge ourselves in the field, while the containers fill up at a satisfying yet slow pace.
We got a tractor ride to the field, and were allowed to just stroll around, undisturbed, munching contentedly, pausing occasionally to wipe the sweat from our faces.
A little under four pounds of berries were brought home, and devoured straight from the container within a week or two. My grand plans of blueberry betty or muffins were quickly dropped, since it would have been kind of a shame to add anything to these amazing little things.
Oh, and some that were not quite so little, too. This was the last berry to be eaten, what a monster!
We'll be back next year, to continue our own little tradition.