Three this morning, all on the south side of the big Chicago Hardy, all at the height a person can reach without a step. One had a neat hole in it, which means the catbirds found them before I did. The other two were perfect: drooping, soft, a bead of syrup at the eye.
Eaten standing in the garden. Not cooked, not photographed, and not shared. The first ones never are.
From here the picking is daily. If the weather holds, the first jam will be in about ten days, once there is enough in the freezer trays to make a batch worth the pan.