I have a few memories of picking blueberries with my mom as a kid - sweat dripped off my eyebrows, down the back of my neck and onto the strap that held the tray. She tried to get us out early, but there was a period around 10:00 just after the dew burned off when the humidity was still 100% and the sun was high enough to bake you. As a 7yo wishing I could stay home on my "hard-earned" summer vacation, most of the hardship was purely imagined. And maybe the flavor of those sweaty blueberries was imagined: I've not been able to replicate the taste for some time, even if I drag dragging my own boy to the U-Pick field. I wonder what they taste like to him.