After reading my blog post, my dad emailed me this picture:
Utah Valley, 1982. My first time picking strawberries. I'm the little tow-head on the right. Apparently this experience left quite a positive impression on me.
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5 comments:
Good freakin' grief. YOU look cute but I look like a sociopath.
But I am sure the strawberries were wonderful!!!!
Heh heh. I was going to comment and say how much I enjoyed the sour puss on Em, but she beat me to it. What do you expect? You were what, 14?
For the record, I HATE strawberry picking with a passion that is deep and abiding. Comes from being forced to pick them as a kid. Raspberry picking, though, that I don't mind in the slightest.
But raspberries are pokie! Strawberries are much nicer to pick, though I can understand about bad childhood memories. Being forced to do something as a kid can ruin a lot of good things. I will never, ever like beets.
Raspberries are barely poky at all (unlike, say, wild blackberries). Just wear a long-sleeved shirt (which I do anyway because of the sun) and you'll be fine.
But hey--we might miss raspberry-picking season altogether here this year because of our vacation schedule.
Did I ever tell you about the day I spend on a kibbutz gently tucking strawberry vines out of the trenches (yes, really, that was what we were assigned to do), all the while being attacked by these horrible awful flyish creatures and all my friends were clear across the field. Ah, goo...interesting times. It wasn't nearly as fun as the date fields with the really hot foreman.
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