I love blueberry plants in all the seasons. I love their spring flowers, with tiny little scallops, and a neat green dot to every scallop. They remind me of Victorian pantaloons. I also love them in Autumn when their leaves turn red and yellow and orange. I would plant them in the garden just for those features alone.
Which is lucky really, because my dozen beautiful blueberry bushes are still only knee high after two years, and have produced, oh about fifteen blueberries this summer. Very nice blueberries, as you can see. Quality, but certainly not quantity.
It is also lucky that we live within half an hour's drive of the most divine PYO blueberry farm. Last week, when I got bored with letting down the hems of school dresses and covering books, we went and picked ten kilograms of blueberries. A year of porridge toppers and muffin stuffers. We have been going to this farm since The Girl was a wee toddler, and have seen the bushes grow from waist height, to towering giants. The rows now form green tunnels, and picking blueberries is like gleaning food from a trackless jungle. Sometimes there are tiny frogs. Hunting and gathering at its best.
Still, if blueberries weren't called blueberries, and I were the Grand High Poobah in charge of naming plants, I would call them 'Queen Victoria's Knickers', after the flowers.
PS Have you noticed that the blueberries still have tiny scallops at the base of the fruit, just like the flowers?