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Blueberries

This Is My Body

Since memoir is all about associations, permit me this one. I descended into the kitchen this morning to find a white bowl of blueberries, covered by a red towel, on the countertop. I peeked. Very patriotic, but not the point. I tasted one. Divine! Sweet, all blueberry, not at all acidic. Quite honestly, I have never tasted such a delicious blueberry. I realized at once that Matt had picked them from Scooter’s bush sometime this morning, which accounts for the fresh picked flavor. (I immediately regretted not planting corn and tomatoes.) Then I wondered if Scooter himself had had anything to do with the excellence of these berries, either physically or on an astral plane. I didn’t dwell on either, except to think he was the sweetest dog in the world, why wouldn’t his blueberries be the same?

Memory being what it is, Aunt Betty’s funeral came to mind, her after-party as it were. Betty was Joe’s aunt and Joe’s cousin Jeanne is her daughter. As we sat around Jeanne’s living room, talking about Betty’s good cooking and how we’d miss it, Jeanne pro-cessed slowly and dramatically into the room, holding a medium size glass bowl in both hands at chest level, not unlike a Priest holding a chalice full of Communion bread.

“This is my mother’s German potato salad,” she intoned, “she made it right before she died.” Of course, I wanted the details; did she have chest pains while she was boiling the potatoes? Did she see angels (for which she was also famous) and decide to make potato salad? Did she have bacon on hand she was afraid would go bad? We’ll never know her motivation and even I was not snarky enough to ask these questions. Like everybody else, I just took a small spoonful of potato salad and said a quick prayer for Betty, which also served to turn off the radio in my head.

I don’t know Matt’s plans for these blueberries, but I hope they involve some Hagen Daz vanilla bean ice cream and I hope I’m included. I suppose we’ll talk about Scooter and maybe then we won’t able to eat the berries, but I doubt it.

Blueberries

This Is My Body

Since memoir is all about associations, permit me this one. I descended into the kitchen this morning to find a white bowl of blueberries, covered by a red towel, on the countertop. I peeked. Very patriotic, but not the point. I tasted one. Divine! Sweet, all blueberry, not at all acidic. Quite honestly, I have never tasted such a delicious blueberry. I realized at once that Matt had picked them from Scooter’s bush sometime this morning, which accounts for the fresh picked flavor. (I immediately regretted not planting corn and tomatoes.) Then I wondered if Scooter himself had had anything to do with the excellence of these berries, either physically or on an astral plane. I didn’t dwell on either, except to think he was the sweetest dog in the world, why wouldn’t his blueberries be the same?

Memory being what it is, Aunt Betty’s funeral came to mind, her after-party as it were. Betty was Joe’s aunt and Joe’s cousin Jeanne is her daughter. As we sat around Jeanne’s living room, talking about Betty’s good cooking and how we’d miss it, Jeanne pro-cessed slowly and dramatically into the room, holding a medium size glass bowl in both hands at chest level, not unlike a Priest holding a chalice full of Communion bread.

“This is my mother’s German potato salad,” she intoned, “she made it right before she died.” Of course, I wanted the details; did she have chest pains while she was boiling the potatoes? Did she see angels (for which she was also famous) and decide to make potato salad? Did she have bacon on hand she was afraid would go bad? We’ll never know her motivation and even I was not snarky enough to ask these questions. Like everybody else, I just took a small spoonful of potato salad and said a quick prayer for Betty, which also served to turn off the radio in my head.

I don’t know Matt’s plans for these blueberries, but I hope they involve some Hagen Daz vanilla bean ice cream and I hope I’m included. I suppose we’ll talk about Scooter and maybe then we won’t able to eat the berries, but I doubt it.