Spring quickly gave way to a very warm summer and before we knew it, we were halfway through July. Paul tried to contact Graysmarsh Farm to inquire about the ripeness of their Loganberries but all he reached was their answering service. He left multiple messages but a speedy response was not forthcoming. So, with one hot day following another, we decided to take the plunge and have a "Berry Date" which Paul assured me would be "berry, berry nice". (And there better be a spider on the ceiling with all the eye rolling that just produced.)
Our Berry Date took a bit of planning. We live on Whidbey island, which means to get to the Olympic Peninsula we have to take a ferry. This particular ferry is so well travelled that you need to make a reservation to travel on it and woe to those unlucky folks who just show up and want to hop on, cause ---it ain't happening. Paul dutifully made the reservations and on the appointed day we drove on and sailed across. After we disembarked, we had about a forty minute drive to reach the farm. It was a lovely, warm day. As we drew closer, tall poplar trees with dense shrubs at their base lined the road obscuring everything beyond them. At a break in the trees, there was a slim gravel road with a sign confirming that we had reached Graysmarsh Farm. We turned up the drive and the farm's fields stretched out in front and on the sides of us. To our right lay acres of lavender, just beyond peak bloom but still stunning and on our left was the parking area with row after row of berry vines.
We turned into the parking lot and, judging by the amount of cars already there, we weren't the only ones with a hankering for berries. Beyond the cars was a small wooden stand occupied by two teenage girls. A large flatbed trailer was parked along side of the stand with stacks of 3 gallon plastic buckets. We walked up to the stand and one of the girls said "Would you like to pick berries?" "Yes, Loganberries," Paul replied. "Okay," she said. "Go ahead and take a couple of plastic buckets and head down that path," indicating a grassy farm road bisecting two berry fields. "The loganberries are the first rows on the right."
We wandered down the path with our buckets bypassing the first few loganberry rows, figuring most people would choose them first and therefore they would be over-picked. We entered the fourth row and began to pick the ripe berries. The Loganberry is a hybrid of blackberry and raspberry. It was accidentally created in Santa Cruz, California by the American judge and horticulturist, James Harvey Logan in 1881. The fruit resembles an elongated blackberry in shape but is dark red in color. They are more fragile than blackberries, which we discovered as we continued to pick. Rather than coming away as a whole berry once grasped by our fingers, many of the berries "exploded" in juicy fashion. Soon our hands, from the tips of our fingers to our wrists, were stained a deep blood red.
It was perfect picking weather. "This is quite relaxing," I thought as each berry dropped into my bucket. I could hear the murmur of other voices of people picking in the rows beyond ours. The sun warmed our backs but before it got too hot, a cool breeze occasionally blew off the Puget Sound bringing with it the sweet smell of the berries over the fields. Before too long I noticed my bucket was beginning to have some heft to it. "How many berries do you need for your jam?" I asked Paul. "Around six pounds," came the reply. "Well, I think I have at least that amount," I said. After comparing amounts, we agreed to pick some more just to make sure as we worked our way back toward the fruit stand to weigh and pay for our harvest. As we reached the end of the row, I glanced down into my bucket and noticed my jumble of berries was fast becoming a mushy heap. "Oh well," I thought, "we're going to make them into jam anyway."
We walked up to the stand and I hoisted my bucket up onto the wooden counter. "We're ready to weigh and pay for our berries," I announced. "You have to pour the berries into one of those cardboard flats so we can get our buckets back. We'll weigh them and then you can use the flats to take your berries home," one of the girls explained. She indicated a stack of shallow, corrugated cardboard boxes, about the size and shape of an empty kitchen drawer, piled on the flatbed trailer where we found the plastic buckets. I walked over to the flatbed, grabbed a box and dumped my load of berries into it. It soon became apparent that the boxes were not leak-proof as berry juice quickly seeped out the edges of the box. I lifted my box leaving a pool of blood red liquid behind and carried it over to the counter. "Okay," I said holding my dripping box, "where do you want me to put it?" Both girls looked at me in horror, before pointing to a flat, electric scale. I placed it gingerly on top as the blood red juice continued to flow out and onto the counter. "No, no, lift it up--lift it up!" one of them cried. "The juice will wreck the electrical connection!" I lifted the box clear and returned the contents to the plastic bucket. Paul slopped his in as well. We ended up weighing the whole mess in one of the buckets.
We knew there was no way we were going to get those berries home in the cardboard boxes without destroying the carpet in our car, so we offered to purchase one of the buckets. The girls waved away our attempts to pay additional money for the container. "Just go ahead and take it," one of them said as they mopped up the juice on their counter. (Clearly, they wanted no more to do with us and our drippy berries.) We safely stowed the berries in the trunk of the car in our new free plastic bucket. As we drove away, we marveled at how unprepared they seemed to be in regards to handling overripe, oozy berries. "Come on. They work at a berry farm after all!" remarked Paul. "By the way," I asked, "Did we get at least 6 pounds for you to make your jam recipe?" "Oh yeah I think we have enough," he replied. "We picked over 21 pounds!"
We wandered down the path with our buckets bypassing the first few loganberry rows, figuring most people would choose them first and therefore they would be over-picked. We entered the fourth row and began to pick the ripe berries. The Loganberry is a hybrid of blackberry and raspberry. It was accidentally created in Santa Cruz, California by the American judge and horticulturist, James Harvey Logan in 1881. The fruit resembles an elongated blackberry in shape but is dark red in color. They are more fragile than blackberries, which we discovered as we continued to pick. Rather than coming away as a whole berry once grasped by our fingers, many of the berries "exploded" in juicy fashion. Soon our hands, from the tips of our fingers to our wrists, were stained a deep blood red.
It was perfect picking weather. "This is quite relaxing," I thought as each berry dropped into my bucket. I could hear the murmur of other voices of people picking in the rows beyond ours. The sun warmed our backs but before it got too hot, a cool breeze occasionally blew off the Puget Sound bringing with it the sweet smell of the berries over the fields. Before too long I noticed my bucket was beginning to have some heft to it. "How many berries do you need for your jam?" I asked Paul. "Around six pounds," came the reply. "Well, I think I have at least that amount," I said. After comparing amounts, we agreed to pick some more just to make sure as we worked our way back toward the fruit stand to weigh and pay for our harvest. As we reached the end of the row, I glanced down into my bucket and noticed my jumble of berries was fast becoming a mushy heap. "Oh well," I thought, "we're going to make them into jam anyway."
 |
| Both girls looked at me in horror, before pointing to a flat, electric scale. I placed it gingerly on top as the juice continued to flow out and onto the counter. "No, no lift it up --lift it up!" one of them cried. "The juice will wreck the electrical connection!" |
We walked up to the stand and I hoisted my bucket up onto the wooden counter. "We're ready to weigh and pay for our berries," I announced. "You have to pour the berries into one of those cardboard flats so we can get our buckets back. We'll weigh them and then you can use the flats to take your berries home," one of the girls explained. She indicated a stack of shallow, corrugated cardboard boxes, about the size and shape of an empty kitchen drawer, piled on the flatbed trailer where we found the plastic buckets. I walked over to the flatbed, grabbed a box and dumped my load of berries into it. It soon became apparent that the boxes were not leak-proof as berry juice quickly seeped out the edges of the box. I lifted my box leaving a pool of blood red liquid behind and carried it over to the counter. "Okay," I said holding my dripping box, "where do you want me to put it?" Both girls looked at me in horror, before pointing to a flat, electric scale. I placed it gingerly on top as the blood red juice continued to flow out and onto the counter. "No, no, lift it up--lift it up!" one of them cried. "The juice will wreck the electrical connection!" I lifted the box clear and returned the contents to the plastic bucket. Paul slopped his in as well. We ended up weighing the whole mess in one of the buckets.
We knew there was no way we were going to get those berries home in the cardboard boxes without destroying the carpet in our car, so we offered to purchase one of the buckets. The girls waved away our attempts to pay additional money for the container. "Just go ahead and take it," one of them said as they mopped up the juice on their counter. (Clearly, they wanted no more to do with us and our drippy berries.) We safely stowed the berries in the trunk of the car in our new free plastic bucket. As we drove away, we marveled at how unprepared they seemed to be in regards to handling overripe, oozy berries. "Come on. They work at a berry farm after all!" remarked Paul. "By the way," I asked, "Did we get at least 6 pounds for you to make your jam recipe?" "Oh yeah I think we have enough," he replied. "We picked over 21 pounds!"
BOVINE BUDDIES
14x11 inches, oil on linen canvas, 2018
BUY THIS PAINTING AT AUCTION Click on this link to bid: https://ebay.to/2NTw2e7
Bovine Buddies - auction ends on Sunday, October 28th at 9:00am PST.
Three friends in a field enjoying an early Autumn day on a Whidbey island farm. 
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