Thinking about berries reminds me of when I lived in Northern California. We lived in this small town called Tomales at the northwestern edge of Marin County. The next towns over were Petaluma, Freestone, and Valley Ford, all Sonoma County. I feel like counties don’t really mean anything here in New Jersey, but in California they do. Partially that’s because of how states develop, their terrain, and their shape. I grew up in Passaic which is in Passaic County, but the next town was Bergen and Essex was just right there. Plus Passaic County has an hourglass shape. West Milford is in the same County as Passaic which is nuts. All that said, Tomales was a ranching town as is most of West Marin and parts of southern Sonoma County. I used to wake up every morning and drive pass a herd of Hereford cattle on my way to the dairy farm. My days were spent more around cow, sheep, and goats than people. And since this was grazing country there were a lot of small creeks winding around. Within those creeks were plenty of wild blackberries. They grew like weeds. Further north along the Russian River where I used to lounge around and swing from ropes, there were wild berries all around. That was a really great thing about Northern California in that it’s not totally developed in the way that part of Northern New Jersey or Southern California are developed. You can still walk in the woods and find something to eat that isn’t full of toxic shit.

Northern California grows great strawberries— there’s no doubt about that. But what they don’t have are great blueberries. I lived there for years and never could I eat a blueberry with that same flavor as here in the Northeast. It’s probably because of the climate, soil, and terrain; but, man, a blueberry here in Jersey, LI, or even Maine is something else. You pop a bunch into your mouth and there’s this undeniable flavor. My grandparents in Long Island used to have this massive blueberry patch along the old barn. They were potato farmers, but my grandma had a sweet tooth second to none. She could make a mean blueberry pie. Those few summer weeks that I’d spend there she would ask me to pick blueberries before the birds get them, and I’d go all out. A few in the basket, a few in my mouth, repeat, and repeat.

Back to California. I probably know that state better than Jersey, if I’m honest. I spent years reading incessantly about the history of that state, driving up and down, meeting all kinds of people, camping alone at random locations, stalking quail and coyote, and so on. I lived a full California life in a short span of time. It’s possible I could write a whole book about my time there. But the history is rich. Those Kevin Starr, the state historian, books were portals to the past and meant a lot to me. The day he died was a depressing one.

The area where I had the consistently best strawberries were along the Central Coast, roughly around the area of Vandenberg Air Force base. There were endless fields, and you could just pull up and drop some cash into a box and take a flat. Eating freshly picked strawberries while they’re still warm from the sun is something insane. How could anything be that good? You stand there as the dust blows all around you and wonder why can’t life be as good as eating this berry. Of course I’ve had single better berries elsewhere. I was once wandering around Portola Redwoods State Park and saw some wild strawberries along the path. I picked the brightest devilish berry I ever saw and popped it into my mouth. It was like eating one of the Kami itself. And to be in the woods alone where the only sounds are non-human transcend generic living. Your sense of hearing becomes stronger, you feel the air better, and your eyes widen. All this from eating a berry along the path.

I have a few blueberry and raspberry bushes in Passaic and just started growing blackberries. They’re never enough for me to use at the store, but they are plenty for my own personal indulgence. And in turn, they inspire flavors. I don’t think berries really represent summer even though they peak at the beginning and end of it. Summer is more like a watermelon to me. But berries of all kind are something primal, primal joy maybe.

A Berry Good Week