Simple pleasures
About this time every year the roads around our house are all marked with signs with a giant strawberry, the words "u pick", and an arrow. In the eight strawberry seasons we've lived here we have never, in spite of our good intentions, gone strawberry picking. This year Kylie asked if we could pick strawberries. I gave her the classic non-commital "we'll see", while trying to wrap my brain around strawberry picking with a six year old, three year old, and three month old. I didn't figure Robbie would be interested in accompanying us, and I wasn't sure I was brave enough to venture into the strawberry fields alone.
On Sunday we were returning home from a visit to my sister's house where we met her new dog. Upon seeing one of the strawberry signs Rob said "if I could take just Kylie I would go pick some strawberries, but I'm sure I couldn't get out without Phillip and I don't know how he would do". Being the eternal optimist and blessed (or is that cursed?) with a "can-do" attitude, I replied that we should just go right then, all of us. After all, there were two of us, Bella would stay sleeping in her car seat (with the little canopy pulled over her to shield her from the sun), and how long could it really take? He looked at me with a mix of skepticism and amusement as he headed for the strawberry fields.
Kylie and Phillip were both thrilled when we pulled into the parking lot of the strawberry farm. Kylie's excitement was somewhat tempered as she exited the car and inhaled "ewwww, what's that smell?" she asked. Her Dad informed her that it was "poo" otherwise known as manure, ahhhh, the sweet smells of life on a farm! Since they had been open for picking for about a week the lady suggested we head towards the back of the fields and assured us we would find plenty of berries there. We grabbed our containers and dutifully marched down the dusty aisle to the back of the field, where little red berries could be seen peeking out from under big green leaves.
After about ten minutes scooched down in the summer sun Kylie informed us she was hot and her knees hurt from bending to pick the berries. Hubby and I were telling Phillip for the fiftieth time to stop walking over the rows and stepping on the berries (I only had to tell him once that he couldn't sit on them!), and Bella was starting to wake up. Robbie had filled one of the six quart containers we had purchased, mine was about two-thirds full, and Kylie's had six berries in it. Phillip had long since abandoned his container, and instead would pick a berry, run to Rob or me and say "is this one good?", and put it in our container (that accounts for all the unripe and overripe berries). Despite the fact that I had seen plenty of faces smeared with strawberry juice as we trekked through the rows, I told Kylie and Phillip they had to wait until we got the berries home and washed to try them. I suspect that my aversion to them eating things fresh from the dirt and potentially still bearing traces of the pesticide du jour can be attrituted to my "quirkyness", but I'll blame it on my Mother.
Given the less than efficient picking skills of our two little helpers Robbie said he was glad that I had decided against staying in the van with Bella as I had originally planned. He would have been out there awhile trying to fill six containers by himself. Finally, after about thirty minutes, (the last ten of which consisted of me picking for a few minutes, then swinging Bella in her seat as she had woken up and was not exactly thrilled to find herself sitting in the middle of a strawberry field), we had our six quarts of strawberries.
We traipsed back towards the little shack to pay for our haul, triumphant in having gathered such wonderful fruit. Kylie and Phillip, both sporting fingers stained with berry juice, thanked us for the rest of the day for taking them strawberry picking. The berries, once properly washed, were proclaimed to be the best strawberries ever. Next year when the strawberry signs go up I know we'll be heading for the strawberry fields again, to take part in one of life's simple pleasures.
On Sunday we were returning home from a visit to my sister's house where we met her new dog. Upon seeing one of the strawberry signs Rob said "if I could take just Kylie I would go pick some strawberries, but I'm sure I couldn't get out without Phillip and I don't know how he would do". Being the eternal optimist and blessed (or is that cursed?) with a "can-do" attitude, I replied that we should just go right then, all of us. After all, there were two of us, Bella would stay sleeping in her car seat (with the little canopy pulled over her to shield her from the sun), and how long could it really take? He looked at me with a mix of skepticism and amusement as he headed for the strawberry fields.
Kylie and Phillip were both thrilled when we pulled into the parking lot of the strawberry farm. Kylie's excitement was somewhat tempered as she exited the car and inhaled "ewwww, what's that smell?" she asked. Her Dad informed her that it was "poo" otherwise known as manure, ahhhh, the sweet smells of life on a farm! Since they had been open for picking for about a week the lady suggested we head towards the back of the fields and assured us we would find plenty of berries there. We grabbed our containers and dutifully marched down the dusty aisle to the back of the field, where little red berries could be seen peeking out from under big green leaves.
After about ten minutes scooched down in the summer sun Kylie informed us she was hot and her knees hurt from bending to pick the berries. Hubby and I were telling Phillip for the fiftieth time to stop walking over the rows and stepping on the berries (I only had to tell him once that he couldn't sit on them!), and Bella was starting to wake up. Robbie had filled one of the six quart containers we had purchased, mine was about two-thirds full, and Kylie's had six berries in it. Phillip had long since abandoned his container, and instead would pick a berry, run to Rob or me and say "is this one good?", and put it in our container (that accounts for all the unripe and overripe berries). Despite the fact that I had seen plenty of faces smeared with strawberry juice as we trekked through the rows, I told Kylie and Phillip they had to wait until we got the berries home and washed to try them. I suspect that my aversion to them eating things fresh from the dirt and potentially still bearing traces of the pesticide du jour can be attrituted to my "quirkyness", but I'll blame it on my Mother.
Given the less than efficient picking skills of our two little helpers Robbie said he was glad that I had decided against staying in the van with Bella as I had originally planned. He would have been out there awhile trying to fill six containers by himself. Finally, after about thirty minutes, (the last ten of which consisted of me picking for a few minutes, then swinging Bella in her seat as she had woken up and was not exactly thrilled to find herself sitting in the middle of a strawberry field), we had our six quarts of strawberries.
We traipsed back towards the little shack to pay for our haul, triumphant in having gathered such wonderful fruit. Kylie and Phillip, both sporting fingers stained with berry juice, thanked us for the rest of the day for taking them strawberry picking. The berries, once properly washed, were proclaimed to be the best strawberries ever. Next year when the strawberry signs go up I know we'll be heading for the strawberry fields again, to take part in one of life's simple pleasures.
posted by Edie @ 8:10 AM
2 Comments:
At 6:55 PM,
Anonymous said…
What a fun thing to do together and a great tradition to start. Are you making anything special with your six quarts of strawberries?
At 10:43 PM,
Edie said…
Actually while it was fun I think we were a bit ambitious in picking six quarts. We have actually frozen some, so we can have fresh strawberry shortcake later in the year.
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