On having the blues.

I didn't get to eat blueberries very often when I was a kid. I have some vague ideas about why -- blueberries aren't exactly native to where I grew up, and they might have been a little pricey for my parents, who were trying to raise three kids on what I knew even then was not a lot of money. Then again, I do not come from a family with much gustatory zest. In the Midwestern suburbs of the '70s where I grew up, the only cheese we ever saw came in plastic-wrapped slices, a little sprinkling of oregano in the spaghetti sauce was about as spicy as things ever got, and the lone Chinese restaurant nearby was exotic and strange. Fruit was Red Delicious apples, navel oranges, and fruit cocktail from a can. And so it was that I came to consider blueberries a rare treat, something special to eat slowly, one at a time.

Today I went to the farmer's market, where I bought a pint of organic blueberries that had reached that perfect point between tart and sweet. I just now scooped a handful out of a bowl and ate them in a single mouthful. I know it's easy to take things for granted when they become more common, but I am grateful to be able to eat blueberries with abandon. I don't take that for granted at all. I'm loving every bite.