We picked blueberries in Maiden Rock, Wisconsin this month. Bucolic Rush River farm sits on a bluff amid all things summery-green. To get to the blueberry patch, you'll park in the grass, and wade through coils of vegetables that would surely reach the clouds - if Jack carried them up his beanstalk. You'll see wild children running through bush and field, eating, boredom momentarily extinguished; perky flower patches waving in the breeze. Blueberries.
Follow my fingers...
If you're curious about the view, click here!
Magic indeed. But the magic really happened on a Saturday. Blueberries to feed the body, a farm to feed the soul.
I was making pancakes the other day and a fly flew into the kitchen. And that's when I realized that a spatula is a lot like a fly-swatter. And a crushed fly is a lot like a blueberry. And a roommate is a lot like a fly eater.