Blueberry Band

Diary of a week

Monday, June 3

I intended to make them last, to stretch a blueberry band over as many days as I could, carefully portion them out of the clamshell container for today, tomorrow, the next day, and maybe even the day after that. Spoon them into a small dish each day, drizzle a ribbon of cream, cast a crunch of sugar over top. But, by day’s end they were all gone.

Tuesday, June 4

I see them tucked away behind rambling, turn of the century houses in the leafy neighborhoods in town. Carriage houses. Quaint little buildings at the end of the drive, or just off the alley, with double, out-swing doors, Dutch lap siding, and maybe a divided light window or two. And I wonder what it would be like to own one.

Wednesday, June 5

I was sure I didn’t care for them. But there, offered by our host as a pre-dinner nibble, were round, creamy-white turnips on a veggie tray alongside locally grown radishes, carrots, and a dish of ranch dip. I picked one up, swiped a cap of creamy ranch on its top, and took a bit. Sweet. Crunchy. Delicious. Hakurei turnips. And that was that. Two packets of seeds from Johnny’s are now winging their way to me. It’s not too late.

Thursday, June 6

“I like to think our rhubarb is a heritage from the early folk who lived here. For the shining bright green leaves open like platters down by the pond, at the edge of the garden, all along the border, back of the compost heap, and at the edge of the asparagus bed. Rhubarb stalks grow tender and rosy and big all over our place.” - Gladys Taber, Stillmeadow Daybook

The idea stepped right off the page, as sure as could be. Never had I ever before considered having rhubarb growing all over the place.

Friday, June 7

If you’re a visionary, not everyone will understand. Just smile and carry on.

Saturday, June 8

As the sun slid down the slope of the western sky, Maggie Mae and I found ourselves on a familiar stretch of country road, strolling the last bit of the day’s energy away. And there, at the end of a ranch driveway, we came upon a delightful surprise. A farm stand, run on the honor system. Inside were canned goods, honey, lotions and soaps, fresh eggs, raw milk yogurt and alfalfa sprouts, offered in trade for cash in the box (or digital payment). With the evening’s breeze blowing through the slatted walls, I was shopped the tiny market. As we rumbled down the road toward home, beside me on the seat sat a pint of huckleberry yogurt and a dozen eggs.