I don’t really care for blueberries. It’s not that I don’t like them. Or question their nutritional value. Or don’t appreciate them in homemade muffins with just the right amount of lemon zest. Or in jelly–one of the few instances in which I prefer jelly as to a chunky, fruit-filled jam–smeared across good generously buttered toast.
But they’re not my favorite. Strawberries. At least sun-ripened strawberries. Or blackberries. Or wild-growing marion/loganberries. Now those are real flavors. And that’s just the berries. Give me citrus. Tart, lip-puckering lemon, cool lime, or sweet orange (or even blood orange). Those are flavors.
Cherries. Peaches. Plums.
Something about blueberries always seems too easy (smooth skin, no seeds of notice). Too sweet? No tartness whatsoever. Or devoid of texture. Where’s the challenge in that?
I don’t recall if we ever grew blueberries (yes, it’s possible I was that disinterested). If we didn’t, it’s likely I’ve never even picked them for myself.
Blueberries are right down there with melons (with the except of the perfectly sun-ripened Green River cantaloup, which I will relish for a time in its season.
Couldn’t be less interested.
Except for when that spoiled child grew into a giant blueberry in Charlie in the Chocolate factory. That was not forgettable.
[Day 150 of Ann Dee Ellis’ 8-Minute Memoir.]