Yesterday I did something that I know for a fact my mother will be shocked to read about. I voluntarily took my child strawberry picking. I enjoyed it. I thought it was a great afternoon out with my little man. And I can’t even believe I’m about to type these words, I think we’ll go back and do it again.
You see, I went strawberry picking a lot as a child. Mom was a jam maker and so we’d venture forth into the strawberry fields and pick for hours, days, years even (OK exaggerating a little there). Because if you’re going to make a proper batch of jam, well you need to pick a certain quota of strawberries. You can’t just come home with one or two little baskets. You need to come home with buckets upon buckets of strawberries. And the strawberry picking I remember was the back-breaking kind, the kind with the strawberries actually planted directly into the ground, the kind that required you to crawl around on your knees searching for the luscious red berries.
But today, I’ve never seen such a wonder. Row after row of strawberries at eye level where I can just take a leisurely stroll picking, and maybe eating, as I go. And the little man loved it. He’s not quite tall enough yet to reach most of the berries, but some were hanging well within the grasp of his little hands. My most difficult challenge was getting him to pick the ripe ones.
Certainly as he gets older, other much cooler things will have his attention and he will have no interest in going strawberry picking. Maybe this is what happened to me. But for now, we’ll just enjoy this as a nice way to spend some time together in the outdoors and learn a little about where food actually comes from. As I am not a jam maker, just a few berries in a basket to enjoy with cream are enough to satisfy my strawberry cravings.
Maybe we’ll even pick some raspberries next time.
