A friend treated me to dinner last night as thanks for caring for her cat while she was off expeditioning last week. Somehow I feel like I should have been taking her out for dinner; her week was far more strenuous than mine.
She bushwhacked through overgrown forest. I hung out and wrote in her adorable house. She traversed snowfields. I played with her darling cat. She canoed, camped, carried and climbed. I puttered about and admired her sweet garden.
I love how blueberries are a bit bashful. I'd wander along, filling my bowl, thinking I'd picked every berry I passed. Then I'd notice a cluster I'd overlooked peeking out from the leaves. I could practically hear them giggle when I spotted them. This kind of garden could make one believe in magic. And fairies.
Hubby and I had a berry-filled week. Blueberries and peaches; blueberries and granola; blueberries and amaranth in salad and blueberries on their own. You'd think my appetite for blueberries would be satisfied, but I find it hard to get tired of fruit when it's in season. As a result I was delighted when my friend presented me with more blueberries after our dinner. Dinner out and blueberries to go. I've been deliciously rewarded twice for tasks that had their own rewards.
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