My family is all about tradition, and one of our favorite early summertime traditions is berry picking at Gizdich Ranch. We make the forty-five-minute drive to
When I was little, we’d usually be one of the first groups of pickers to arrive. “Remember, this is how you pick them,” my mom would remind my brother and I, as she gently twisted the berry allowing it to fall into her hand. She did this for several years, until, I suppose, it was evident that we remembered from the previous year. We were reminded that we must only pick the dark purple berries, not the light ones that looked like large raspberries.
Olallies (pronounced oh-la-lee) are sweetly tangy, a cross between blackberries and loganberries (loganberries are a cross between blackberries and raspberries). They originated in
My brother and I were given our own little buckets to fill with berries before depositing them into the larger containers that we would take home. We raced to see who could fill their bucket the fastest. I adamantly believed that my brother cheated, the proof found in the large flat with nearly ripe or not even ripe berries that I was sure my brother picked to try to fill his bucket quicker. Silly little competitive person that I was, I never took into account that maybe those lighter berries wound up in the flat because he wore a patch over his eye and therefore, he couldn’t always see very well; or maybe, I was the culprit, having been so consumed with “winning” that I didn’t take as much care in picking the ripe berries as I should have.
Aside from our ridiculous competition to pick the most berries, my brother and I loved to sneak berries into our mouths rather than putting them in the bucket like we were told. We were permitted to have one or two, but that was it. For several years, I remember asking if I could eat a berry or several, but after a while, I thought I got smart, and ate them without asking.
That’s when my parents started joking that they should weigh my brother and I before we came in and as we were leaving, so the difference in weight could be paid (pickers pay for what they’ve picked at the hut near the open rows).
In the hot sun, the berries would soften, their vibrant tartness exploding in our mouths with each taste, leaving a faint purple ring around the edge of our lips. Slightly cooked in the sun, the berries’ juice easily ran onto our fingers as we picked them, staining them a lovely shade of olallie purple. If we didn’t wash them immediately, we would carry the proof of our picking with us for the rest of the week.
The rows would fill with other families and groups picking olallies for various reasons. Two ladies share canning and jamming tips, chattering away about different techniques they’ve tried and what works best. Another woman in a different row chirps up about olallie pies she’s made and offers her own advice on making olallie jam. “Jimmy, don’t eat that,” a father passively tells his son, who we can hear running up and down the row. Another group displays their uninhibitedness with their singing of an odd combination of car songs and church hymns. Several others exchange the most recent gossip about common acquaintances.
When we finished picking our fill (I seem to recall hearing something about 40 lbs. of berries one year, but maybe that was just my youthful imagination), we drive over to the ranch. Passing more berry fields, a welcome sign greets us to the farm. Turning down a little one-lane road, we drive by an antique shop offering treasures for the house and yard. 
Across the postage-sized parking lot sits the barn which instead of housing farm animals and hay, keeps all the mouth-watering treats prepared by the workers of the farm—jam, juice, pie, tarts, strawberry shortcake.
The strawberry shortcake is really our primary reason for visiting the farm after berry picking. On every trip, my mom wishes aloud that she could get their strawberry shortcake recipe. It’s the perfect combination of fresh-picked strawberries, shortcake, and whipped cream. The shortcake is sweet and flaky, the ideal accompaniment to the fresh sweetness of the strawberries. It’s not at all like the Bisquick version most people make or even the homemade version we make. It’s infinitely better than other forms of shortcake due to the extremely fresh ingredients used. A lot of people order pie or other delicious fruity treats, but if you make it out to Gizdich, don’t miss out on the shortcake—trust me!
The other treat we indulge in is their fresh-pressed apple juice. Thicker than any store bought version, Gizdich’s apple juice is all fruit juice, sweet and pure. It's heavenly when drunk slightly frozen. The juice flows down with little ice caps, offering the perfect warm-weather refreshment. They would make great popsicles, if we could ever get enough home to freeze! It's so good that it doesn't always make it home to be enjoyed or shared later.
Gizdich Ranch is home to lots of family memories, from berry picking in the hot sun to grumbling about being forced to share strawberry shortcake with a sibling. They also have apple picking in the fall for those more inclined to fruit growing on trees rather than from bushes. One of these days, I hope to have the apple picking experience at Gizdich. Or maybe that will wait until I have kids to take.
Gizdich Ranch
831.722.1056
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