I told FringeMan I should go work on a farm for the summer picking season, because there’s something all-consuming about trying to capture every last bit of ripe fruit before the ants, flies, and birds get them. If you have a compulsive personality, become a picker of anything growing in mass quantity. You’ll experience happy fulfillment at the end of each day. Trust me.
Anyway, FringeMan thinks I’m too slow to be hired by anyone. He’s never heard that slow and steady wins the race.
I must admit that I ate three berries for every one I picked. Perhaps the antioxidants went directly to my brain or maybe my hormones were out of balance this week, because I morphed into Betty Crocker. Sadly my creations won’t be making me millions, but I guarantee they’ll add pounds to my bottom.
This sudden surge of domestication had me wondering, and I momentarily stopped, looking from a double sink piled high with purple stained dishes to a countertop no longer visible. In that late day moment, I feared my sanity forever stolen by a small, plump berry.
In reality I am no pioneer. A battle wages in my brain with the sane side telling me that grocery stores sell more jars of jam than I can make in the nine lives I do not posses, but the other side of brain sees the five gallon pail of fresh berries and concocts projects that could transport me to the nineteenth century.
Intervention struggles for release on the tip of my tongue.
I had no choice but to make blueberry smoothies, with skim milk of course. Somebody help me before I drown in my kitchen sink. At the end of my life, I don’t want to learn that I’ve spent ten years, and not a moment less, doing dishes!
Thankfully the rest of the berries are sleeping happily in my freezer and waiting for the next time my hormones go haywire. Right now I’m sitting scared to death of apple picking season.
I’m not even bored. Really. Imagine if I were?
I don’t want to make you feel less than June Cleaver with this post. The truth is my jam is a bit runny, the pie (made with refrigerated crust) must scooped with a spoon, and the smoothies…well, those I can’t complain about. I am getting better than my first pie. You can read my early cooking confessions HERE.