Recently, my husband James and I went on one of my favorite autumn expeditions: cranberry picking. At the back of our property there is a cranberry bog below the high-tension lines, and it's accessible by a neighbor's driveway. Our neighbor, Marnie, had told us about the bog after we had been living here a couple of years (perhaps she was waiting to see what kind of people we were before she divulged her secret), and in it grows wild cranberries -- they taste just like Ocean Spray, only better: fresher, earthier, and definitely tangier.
It was a dry summer this year, which translated into a lean harvest for the berries, and at first I thought the bog was picked clean. Although, once I put on my "cranberry eyes" and narrowed my focus, I started to see them: dark red berries, often hanging in clusters of two. Passing over the soft ones that had already suffered from a freeze, we eventually filled our picking baskets with close to two pounds of fruit. Some will become cranberry sauce, some infused with vodka for a cordial, some are already baked into scones, and the rest are in the freezer for our winter enjoyment.