The Swedish year is punctuated by recurring events. These give life a pleasant rhythm, they are always the same, predictable, somehow comforting in the helter skelter of our daily madness. Late summer is blueberry time. Yesterday I was out cycling in the forest with Samuel and his buddy Ruben when I noticed that we were surrounded by a patch of what looked like bucketloads of big, juicy, ripe blueberries. This evening, knowing that they will soon be gone, I used a spare hour to find my way back to that same spot off the main track in the forest and pick one small bucket of berries. There was no shortage of them, but it is slow and tedious work, and I had to content myself with only a litre or so. Back home they went into the freezer with another litre that Maria picked yesterday. Should be enough for at least five pies, to bring back memories of summer when chilly winds blow in and the sky is a darkening grey.