Along with unrestrained lobster gluttony, when on Down East summer visits I eat the pellet-sized wild blueberries that are equally emblematic of the State O' Maine, as the brand of bathrobes and pajamas is still called (though the factory and outlet where we would stock up annually, heading north out of Rockland, is now an office development). They're sold pretty much everyplace along Route 1: gas stations, convenience stores, nurseries, and one-lawn-chair roadside stands that annoy summer travelers forced to crawl anyway as people like me pull over for a quick quart.
In fact on the way up I went through a quart in only the hour or so between Brunswick and Rockland, and then roughly a quart a day while I was there, with an a bonus afternoon pint thrown in on top of the morning's quart on the long trip back. The grainy, dry texture makes them somewhere between the cultivated blueberries we all know (and that I can consume by the pint but not the quart), which may be sweeter, softer, and juicier but not necessarily better.
Irritating road-trippers like me, conspicuous and enthusiastic as we may be, are the exception. According to a state information sheet, to potatoes' $100 million. Maine claims to produce 99 percent of the country's wild blueberries, though they're also harvested in the similarly low, wet, cold fields of northern Minnesota (too bad Maine doesn't have wild rice)—and of course Canada, which is lately muscling in on Maine lobster and Vermont maple syrup, making pushy claims they've got more and better both.