One of the traditions the Andersons enjoy when they come to visit us here in Oregon’s Willamette Valley is berry picking.

It was a first for these two.

These two were heading for…

What else?

Dusty, heading toward more promising bushes, declared this the year of the boysenberry. I see you longing to pick those right in front of Quinn to pop into your month!

Weighing the berries is serious business. Looking at the $19 results, Dusty says, “That’s pretty cheap entertainment!”

And I’m eyeing the results from an entirely different perspective. I know this Anderson tradition means they’ll fly home tomorrow and leave behind what we’ve come to affectionately call “Anderberries,” because they don’t discriminate, filling their buckets with a variety of seasonal goodness.

So after a couple of weeks of joyful family togetherness, Mauri and I are left to soothe our empty-house sad/gladness with a celebration of sorts. We just happen to have some vanilla ice cream left from last night’s family finale. And all those berries to eat or freeze.

I’ve never been accused of making a beautiful pie. But somehow they manage to taste good enough to eat.

My mother taught me it’s impolite to lick my bowl. So I took the picture first.

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OK, so I didn’t really lick the bowl. Not that I didn’t want to.