In my childhood, blueberries were always a summer fruit. Only a summer fruit. Now I see them in the supermarket every time I go.  

Oh, if you were lucky, you might go picking in some rural or country location; I never found this as romantic an activity as others did. Also, wild berries are another product entirely, so tiny and sharp in flavor that you’ve got to add sugar and cook them. But then, oh, my, the pie! We all gobble it down, scrape our plates with our forks, and say, “That’s the Real Thing!”  

As I write, memories crowd back and flood my tongue. I think of the classic children’s book, Blueberries for Sal, by Robert McCloskey, published when I was two years old. A lovely piece of visual and verbal storytelling, it tells about Sal and her mother in rural Maine (based on  McCloskey’s wife and little daughter) who go berry-picking in the wild at the same time as a bear and her cub. Both mother/child pairs are preparing for winter in their different ways: the bear cub is urged to gobble and build up its fat/blubber, but Sal is supposed to pick and save the berries in her pail for preserving. Of course she eats them right off! Soon the two “cubs” start following the wrong mothers, both of whom react in alarm and gather the correct children back to their sides. 

Of course, this Sally is right with little Sal: I just want to eat ‘em! I never grew up. I also know those wild berries are tart indeed, so Sal probably doesn’t know any better. As sweets go, that’s what she’s got, most likely.  

I’m spoiled. For supermarket berries are fine with me, though once in a while some come through with skins as tough as canvas. Most of the time, however, these berries have plenty of flavor. I’m grateful for the many someones who grew them, and worked in the packing and shipping industries, often at a great distance (even on another continent), who have done all the work. 

 I wonder, though, if even now my mother-in-law Lois Buffington would concede these berries’ goodness. You can read about her in the “Blueberry Pie” chapter in my book, A Place Like This. Mom had high standards indeed.  

As have I, in a different way. I just like to eat blueberries casually. My husband and I especially like what I think of as “blue and white berries” for dessert, in a bowl with a dusting of powdered sugar. Blueberries that come with no strings attached. Or bears, for that matter.  

And unlike Sal’s mother’s preserves, my cooking produces lovely results don’t last: blueberry muffins. Offering a brief feeling of luxury, muffins are a vacation treat or weekend special. For me, they’re the nicest component of breakfast on the porch.  

The night before, I lay my plans. I wash the berries, pick them over and de-stem, then leave them to drain in a dishtowel; also I pre-measure the dry baking ingredients in a mixing bowl, and get the muffin tin ready. (If I happen to have raspberries on hand, I throw in a handful for extra flavor and a patriotic color spread.) 

  Next morning, first thing on getting up, I heat the oven. Measure milk, get out eggs, and melt butter, then mix all three together. Then I grease the tins, and next assemble the whole batter. Stir! Generously sprinkle cinnamon sugar atop each muffin.  

Twenty minutes in the oven, and there you have it.    

And twenty minutes might be about as long as they last. Which is fine, for muffins never taste as good the next day. Freshness is the word.  

That’s blueberries for this Sal.   

The recipe: 

Oven 400 degrees 

1 ½ C. blueberries 

1 ¾ C. flour 

2 t. baking powder 

1/3 C. sugar 

½ t. salt 

2 eggs 

¾ C. milk 

¼ C. butter, melted  

1/3 C. cinnamon sugar  

Mix dry ingredients together. In a separate bowl, beat eggs, them add them to melted butter and mix. Combine both mixtures, stir, and fold in berries. Place spoonfuls of batter in muffin pan cups, sprinkle with cinnamon sugar, and bake at 400 for 20 minutes.