A Tale of Two Food Rituals

When most people imagine the blueberry plant, they likely picture a shoulder high bush, thick and weighing with the large, plump bright berry familiar to us through plastic grocery store pints and atop our yogurt parfaits. When I tell people of my years working on a blueberry farm, I am often met with surprise when I speak of the small, unassuming berry that grows wild and vastly on low bushes that rarely surpass your ankles, of the sweetness unlike anything found in grocery stores, the varieties of sunset pinks, blues and maroons in coloring.

The intimacy of the blueberry as well as the bonds created through this late summer harvest, is something I also could not fathom, as I traversed across the United States the first year I was confirmed to work for a local organic blueberry farm. I had no idea of the satisfying labor, processes and relationships that would unfold, bringing me back to this small unassuming town in North East Maine for consecutive years to come. The harvest consists of some of the toughest agricultural work I have experienced; backs bent as the sun browned our sweating skin. Dripping dirt and blueberry black and purple juices stains tinted our fingers and faces. Black flies and bumblebees warned of their bite as they persisted to linger around our bare legs and shoulders. Flimsy string strung by our foreman upon arrival dictated where our rows ended and began with our neighbors.

Depending on the field, there were days when you could find yourself working alongside someone else for most of the day; while other days the terrain was so long and dense in foliage that you’d feel almost lost and distant from not only the crew but the entire world. A fleeting feeling of isolation of course, for as the sun began to set with the awakening of mosquitos to replace the black flies, the faces of my coworkers, my campmates and my friends would begin to emerge from our respectable rows; boxes of blueberries in hand to top off our shadowing stacks, from bountiful fields, or to top off our mushy, humbled low lying stacks from wet, sparse and vine filled fields.

Together we would trail behind the massive blueberry trailer as it slowly rolled past the start of our rows, helping load up each other’s precious yield; pounds of blue gold in each handmade wooden box, used well past their prime but still preferred over the plastic bins for sake of aesthetics. Once our berries were loaded, we’d sit below the framed setting sun over acres of woods to share our box count and the refreshing sounds of beers being cracked…

I would be dishonest to say that the day leisurely ended here or that the parts of those harvesting days that I nostalgically relish in the most had been seen through- yet past the unsurmountable beauty of the Maine coast, the wild flowers foraged and bundled to take home during breaks and the wide availability of solitary streams to take a dip in on extra skin bubbling days; none of this is imaginable to me without recognizing the hour and a half long drive back to camp from Cutler.

Every year, Cutler was the field we always saved for last. Not only was it the largest field we harvested from; but it was also the farthest from camp. That was 50 miles traversed both to and from Cutler for multiple weeks of the season. Boxes loaded, we’d all pile into the few cars brave enough to traverse the rocky, harsh roads in, or… into the farm truck. An option most dreaded because of the time added to the journey back home due to the 25ft trailer carrying the fragile berries in tow. For me, this option was one I almost could never surpass. There was something undeniably intimate in the griminess of sitting so close to a pile of field sweaty human beings whose day was spent so similarly to each other’s yet still individually our own. The truck would always be filled with such a great sense of exhaustion that it had no other option but to reveal itself in excitement and silliness. Music and singing would blast over the radio to drown out the clacking and clanging of the blueberries rakes pilled in the bed of the truck. We clutched onto our dog friends while the tops of our heads hit the roof as the trailer bounced us over rocks and ditches. This would persist half of the drive back until we made the stomach rumbling turn into the town of Machias. A strange little tiny corner of the world, where rural coastal Maine living met young political activism atop a historical waterfall; but most importantly, home of the Machias Freshies Gas station.

Freshies. Where we could not only fuel up the vehicles but also our work weary muscles. Rushing in, we’d make our way to the pizza warmer in back where the underrated cheesy gas station perfection awaited us. Locals either stared on or laughed with understanding as we grabbed our slices, one too many ramekins of hot sauce that would inevitably spill, and a forty ounce to help the pizza grease settle. Paper plates in hand, we’d filter our way back to the vehicles to puzzle piece ourselves amongst our drooling dog companions. The smell of gas station food diffused into the air as we trekked further on down the road, this taken for granted sustenance quelled the insatiable hungers only known to the migrant worker. Sustaining us for another half hour of storytelling and to honk and holler back at our companions in speedier cars as they passed us up on the sparse Maine two lane highways. Arriving last to camp as the farm truck always did, the already showered remainder of the crew would buzz with their last bit of energy as they followed the truck and trailer to the barn where we would for another day, unload our boxes of berries together.