Part of the 15 acres I lived on as a child in Pennsylvania was covered with marshes. During the long humid and hot summer months the marshes would burst with blueberries galore. Each of us were sent out with a large bucket to pick bluberries for cobblers and jams. I loved the way the bushes would curve and curl – many time growing so closely together that the branches would arch creating tunnels between them. I would pretend this was the home for the pixies and elves, and occasionally miniature trolls who guarded the blueberries. My fingers would get that delighted blue-ish purple stain on them as I poked the biggest juiciest ones I could find in my mouth. We would trudge back to the house, not only with our buckets full, but with our tummy’s full as well, knowing that in the morning we would have a feast of blueberry pancakes. Just the thought of them was mouth watering.
It’s funny how over the years we forget our love for certain things and then the memory comes crashing upon down upon us. I hadn’t had blueberry pancakes since those farm days. Then, one morning while at Paul’s paren’ts house in Montana, his mom served us delicious blueberry pancakes. My eyes bulged with delight as I remembered this dear love I had forgotten and relished every bite.
So, what did you think I bought at the farmers market the other day? Why a flat of blueberries of course, and this morning we gathered around the table and enjoyed some blueberry pancakes. YUMMMM!