Huckleberries - although a lot like blueberries - are actually a different bird. Huckleberries grow mainly in the pacific northwest (Seattle) area whereas blueberries are the northeast (Maine) and midcoast (New Jersey) areas. I think Huckleberries are generally smaller and sweeter than blueberries even though they are quite similar. This is my experience, anyway, for what it's worth. My question is, what the hell do you all down under call a sweater? I'll start using your term here and we'll call it an even trade! And your jam...I'd be willing to bet it's better than sex.
Thank you, Sarah, for clarifying that. I was already onto my mistake, thanks to the culinary bible that is Joke. My embarrassment is offset, somewhat, by the fact that people delurked to comment - always a nice thing - but compounded by the disappointing realisation that it's unlikely that I will ever taste a huckleberry (sigh).
Never mind. For the record, we call sweaters jumpers - because that's what they are, y'know, like, really warm things to wear when you feel the need to jump. And blueberry jam, while maybe not better than good sex, is almost as good, and is most definitely better than bad sex.
I believe they're called huckleberries, in the Land of the Free. And although we've converted to US names for so very many things - my daughter now bakes cookies and she can't find her sweater as she runs out the door - when it comes to fruit, we are Children of the Empire still, and refer to them as blueberries.
I have to admit, though, huckleberry is a marvellous word.
5 punnets of blueberries gets you three precious jars of jam. That's about 10 bucks a jar, all up. I call that expensive.
So, is it worth it?, I hear you ask.
Um.....(speaking with her mouth full, can't take her anywhere)....
Is not a patch on raspberry, which is fabulous (though expensive and a lot of work for not much return).
But apricot, though pretty and delicious, is such an utter bastard to cook that I can't even look at it for awhile afterwards. I fuss, and watch, and stir like a Woman Possessed, but it always manages to stick to the bottom of the pot. Shits me to tears. See those little specks?
Having said that, I always make plenty of apricot because, come next mid-Winter, I know I'm going to be very glad I did. Nothing chases the Winter blues away like a jar of homemade apricot jam. Well, except maybe a bottle of Irish Whisky, and then you have to pay...
And, of course, the best part of all this is that I get to eat generous quantities of said jam as I produce it.
We take Quality Control seriously, here at Chez Poppalina.
I flew east, grabbing giant platters of Lebanese sweets from Balha's in Coburg, while Gillian covered the South with chocolate babka from Aviv, in Elsternwick. We couldn't decide who had the better haul, but did agree that we both had Very Discerning Taste in cake.
Down to the Bellarine Peninsula drove The Tribe, singing loudly and in various states of tunefulness to Abbey Road, to meet up with More Tribe, whereupon we devoured our bodyweight in cake with lashings of hot tea and much talking over the top of one another.
A violent storm broke over the house, raging above us for the rest of the afternoon, but we ate and talked on, barely noticing. Zeus himself would think twice before messing with this crew, and although men, from time to time, have attempted intervention, all have subsequently come to ghastly and mysterious ends.
I, personally, would advise against it.
When it was finally time to go, we waved our arms airily, the storm cleared, and home we drove, this time to the rough mixes from Sarah's new album, and more singing, though perhaps just a smidge more subdued this time. Which was good, because I thought my head was going to explode.
And now, having been the Nominated Driver (ie. Possessor of Coolest and Most Comfortable Car, with Excellent Seats and 6-stack CD Player), and poorly constituted for industrial levels of conversation, these days, I'm heading for bed, before I drop dead from exhaustion.
ps. A camellia on Sarah's kitchen table, this afternoon.