blue strawberries

We are growing strawberries in a pot in the backyard. It has become a daily ritual to check the strawberry plant, search carefully under the leaves for the perfect red ones, wash them off and then admire them like treasures. Sometimes I get one. These berries have made quite an impression, so much so that all berries have become strawberries. Blackberries are black strawberries, raspberries are red strawberries and blue berries, well you get the picture. It is blueberry season here right now. At the farmers market there are big baskets tumbling over with my favorite fruit. I wait all year for blueberry season.
When I was twelve I moved close to my grandparents. Each year when blueberries came into season we would drive to a farm where you could pick your own. I knew we were supposed to fill the baskets my grandmother brought but I always ate far more than I picked. I ate until I was blue in the mouth and holding my belly. Back at my grandmother's we made jams to be savored later, pies to pass around to friends and family, and for those of us with no patience there were bowls full of berries to eat with the cream of my choice (iced, whipped or heavy) after it all it was my grandmother's. I love the decadence of this childhood memory. It's entirely possible there were not three kinds of cream available, and I don't know if I made a pie, but in my mind it's 100% all true. One other detail painted into this memory is a bowl of flowers. My grandmother had rose bushes in her garden. She picked them daily and cut them very short so they would float in glass bowls throughout the house. I remember thinking it was very fancy and that someday I would have glass bowls with beautiful blooms floating in them. My bowls are not glass but I do love to cut my flowers short, and I think of her every time I do.