I didn't see the cat or I would have shooed him. Don't let him bother you. He doesn't us. He just likes to be in on things.
And yesterday's "things" is a solidly established tradition, at least among the boy-grandchildren. Geddings Gardens are open for business, so we went in the a.m. Temps were a soupy 80 degrees or so. Two and a half inches of rain fell east of Sheldon on Monday night, four and a half here, so sweat was the order of the day.
If global warming creates more rain--warmer air holds more moisture--then northwest Iowans can simply assume this much at least: there will be bumper crops in strawberries. They were thick as thieves yesterday, so many we didn't move far up the road to get our limit. I don't remember ever finding so many soggy ones either; nearly sent me to tears not to take some of the whoppers I picked and tossed. Huge, huge crop.
Act Two begins here with the plucking. By afternoon the three of them had brewed up a strawberry souffle (for lunch), bread, muffins, jam, and soup--yes, soup, one of Sgt. Strawberry's faves (she' the one with the big grin).
I picked, but didn't do much plucking and was the only one who celebrated the yearly ritual with a truck load of berries on ice cream.
We wondered about our oldest. He's sixteen, drives, life guards. We thought he just might consider himself a graduate of such childish pastimes, but he was a diligent participant from field to table. Loves to cook. Took instruction yesterday from the souffle queen.
The whole works has become a ritual, but never before has filling the coffers gone so quickly--a host of hosts, bundles of beauties, a bumper crop.
Great as they were yesterday and are yet today and will be come January, in the long--established ritual of Strawberry-Fields-Forever Day at our house, those gorgeous berries are only a glorious dessert.
Yes, it was a good day. Even th e cat thought it a blessing.
This morning I have much for which to be thankful.
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