pick your own

i frequently experience childhood flashbacks, i suppose running around in dress up doesnt really help, regardless it isn't much of a stretch for me. yesterday i went strawberry picking (and alpaca/goat/rabbit/turkey/peacock petting & feeding) of course i was with a friend and her 3 year old, so i had a built in excuse for "uhm, disa, you've been jumping on the giant pillow for 45 minutes now and we need to get ayanda [the 3 year old] some ice cream".

ice cream?!!! why didnt you say so??

i have never been a big fan of strawberries. supermarket strawberries, that is. there is something that makes fruit taste better when youre squatting in the dirt, sun boring new patches of melanoma onto your shoulders, and plucking them straight off the bush and into your mouth. no sugar required (maybe a couple of wet wipes to clean the sticky juice that dribbles down your elbow). i seriously would have chosen these strawberries over a bar of cadburys dairy milk. there were a couple of surreal moments when i looked over at our stash, and a few rows over there was a family of mexicans squatting and "picking [their] own", between our group and them, we were in the immigrant strawberry picker's patch.

i cannot wait til next month. raspberries are in season.