In any kind of weather, wearing knitted wool sweaters and rain boots, with black coffee in thermo-flasks and slices of raisin pound cake carefully wrapped in Saran wrap, Icelandic families flock to the heath in the summer for berry picking. The stream doesn’t flow to just any heath; it flows to their very special, family-secret kind of spot with the best bilberry shrubs and crowberry evergreens. Spending the day cautiously picking berries into giant, recycled mayonnaise tubs, avoiding any leaves and small sticks while secretly competing with each other on who picks the most, these families feed the children stories of trolls and supernatural creatures.
Growing up in Iceland, I’ll be the first one to admit that I’ve never liked berry picking. Probably because I never won that (internal yet completely in-your-face) competition among siblings; plus, I’mnot at all a proficient or patient berry picker. Too many tiny leaves find their way into my bucket and half of what I pick ends up in my mouth anyway. Being a huge berry lover (which you automatically are when you’re Icelandic(, I was forced to go berry picking because these delicate gems aren’t sold in stores, and you definitely don’t want to miss out on skyr with a good splash of heavy cream topped with a mountain of freshly picked berries. Let me tell you: It’s so worth it.
Source: FS – All – Food – News
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