Thursday, June 5, 2014

strawberry pickin'

Things sound so much more authentic without that last "g," don't they?

My dear friend Amy messaged me on Tuesday night, asking if I wanted to go strawberry picking the next day. I readily agreed, and then promptly forgot. This was especially rude of me because I told her I would let her know when I was done with an 11 am appointment, and when she contacted me at 12:30 asking if I was done, I was in the thick of a knitting design problem and reluctant to leave it.

I hemmed, I hawed, I dragged my feet, I did my best to get out of it. I have no idea why. Thank goodness I remembered that Amy is the source of so much fun and diversion in my life, and I am really better off listening to her and following where she leads, because I always have a great time.

Strawberry picking at a local farm was no exception. I had forgotten how amazing a fresh-picked strawberry can taste. Sweet liquid sunshine in tiny berry form. The fruit in the supermarket isn't even the same species.

Amy and her daughter Emily (another treat, seeing Emily home from college) took pity on my late arrival and rusty picking skills and tossed as many into my container as they did into their own.

 We were thrilled to see so many weeds in with the strawberries, evidence that the farmer didn't spray heavily, if at all.

I haven't stopped eating them since, reasoning that they are pretty much guilt-free. Even if they aren't, their perfection is fleeting and way too good to waste.

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