I don’t think I’ve ever eaten so many blue berries in my life. It all began yesterday when we found a pick-your-own blueberry place that doesn’t use any sprays. We pulled in, grabbed a few colanders, and set to work.
My preferred method of picking was bush-wacking my way into a tight spot, holding the colander under clumps of untouched berries, and then tearing 3-4 down at a time. Quality control was tough, but I made excellent progress. We kept at it for one hour until our eyes crossed.
We drove away with 11 pounds of blue berries. They are now sitting in a huge bag in our fridge. Blue berries on cereal, in yogurt, on salad and whatever else we could find. The winner though was our homemade custard.
Being from Philadelphia, I’m an ice cream snob. The soft serve ice cream, known as a “creamy” in Vermont, tastes like blended ice to my refined buds. In Philadelphia we have frozen custard, a truly creamy, rich soft serve that may be the one thing Julie misses about living in Philadelphia. I grew up eating blue berries with custard and quickly won her over.
As a resourceful wife, she dug out our ice cream maker, loaded in the salt and ice, and then set to work churning her custard mixture. We took turns at the crank and soon had a bucket of frozen custard.
Dumping it into bowls we covered the custard with blue berries and went to work while sitting on our back deck. It was like being in Philadelphia again, just without the humidity and allergies from pollution. The best part is we have a yogurt container full of custard waiting in the freezer along with the remaining eight pounds of berries in the fridge.
Oh, and we had all of this after making a rhubarb pie the day before. I spearheaded the effort, but Julie led the charge. I am still amazed at the amount of sugar you need to keep it from tasting bitter. I’ve also had the Prairie Home Companion song in my head all day: “Momma’s little baby loves rhubarb, rhubarb, bee, bop-a rebob, rhubarb pie.”
We need to have company over soon before we eat all of this on our own.