We loved everything about our trip to Utah. EVERYTHING.
Except one thing I completely forgot about until yesterday. I don’t even remember why it came back into my conscious memory…because I know I tried to block it out.
Bumbleberry pie, specifically.
These little wonders…who knows what they are or where to find them because the “story” posted on the wall at the Bumbleberry Inn claims you may only find bumbleberries during a full moon when the sun is still shining and it is raining flower petals, which will create a triple rainbow. You must follow the second rainbow to its termination where an elf will be waiting and will lead you to a talking unicorn that will give you directions to a hillside that holds the bumbleberries…only after you give them the secret password. However, DO NOT attempt this journey if it isn’t the 3rd Saturday of the tenth month when the temperature is between 78 and 78.5 degrees because at any other point in time, the bumbleberries will be rotten. And most importantly, don’t forget to bring the brown haired, green eyed, left-handed, 3’10 child with exactly seventeen freckles on his nose, carrying a two-toned wicker basket… because this SINGLE CHILD is the only one who can pick the elusive berries…if anyone else attempts this feat, the bumbleberries just up and disappear from their basket.
I may not have the story 100% accurate – but it is on par with the ridiculousness.
While we were in Springdale, Tim and I became curious about all the hype that was the bumbleberry. So popular is this berry that there are T-SHIRTS and MUGS and an ENTIRE GIFT SHOP dedicated to it.
We visited the Bumbleberry Inn gift shop after lunch one afternoon and were instantly hit with an aroma so sticky-sweet your teeth began to decay and you’re sent into a loopy-I-must-have-just-inhaled-something-illegal spiral where the entire room begins to change colors and the giant lollipops start sprouting legs and dancing the mamba.
It didn’t take much effort to find the bumbleberry pie…the showcase of the gift shop, sitting neatly behind a glass sneeze-guard window and was so dark purple it may as well have been black, with a saggy, mushy, pale crust, sitting in a pan on a doily that looked like it came from 1920.
The lady behind the counter smiled and asked in her singsong voice if we wanted a sample.
Tim and I looked at each other with a sideways glance like, “I am NOT putting THAT purple tar IN MY MOUTH… you must be crazy.”
We both shook our heads and began to slowly back away towards the exit, for any sudden movement would have sent us over the edge, screaming something unintelligible and running in circles with our arms flailing, trying to dodge the kick line started by the stuffed animals.