I'm eating one of the sweetest, juiciest strawberries in the history of ever. It's straight from the carton, no sugar needed. Beautiful red on the outside with only a hint of white on the inside. It's heaven wrapped in tiny seeds and hair. Which reminds me...why do strawberries even have hair? Nah. Let's just keep moving.
Watching this strawberry disappear whooshed (yes, you must make the sound) me back to my youth. One Saturday afternoon, in particular.
My mother fancied herself a gardener during those days and had a generous strawberry patch out behind the garage. She spent her afternoons piddling around in various endeavors, usually having something to do with those strawberries. On this specific Saturday, my older brother (Roger), his wife (Tracy), and their daughter (Adrian) came over to spend the evening enjoying some of Mom's famous grilled burgers and, of course, strawberries. Mom spent all afternoon picking and capping berries. Finally, she passed the mountain (what a sight it was) to Tracy, who'd offered to sugar them when she went inside.
A couple of hours later we're all sitting around on the front porch, swinging and laughing and looking forward to dinner (cause we've always been a family of eaters), when Tracy says she's gonna go in and get more tea. Now we all knew that she was really saying, "I'm going inside to sneak a strawberry", but we pretended tea was the truth and let her go. Moments later, she came back out with a horrified look on her face. Not like she'd seen a mouse or a dead body, but definitely like something was very...well...not right.
Tracy: "What do you keep your sugar in?"
Mom: "The yellow container in the cabinet."
Tracy: "Not in the yellow shaker?"
Mom: "No. That's what I keep the salt...oh no"
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