Strawberry Shortcake isn’t just a cartoon.
Our children are on Spring Break this week. A late break I know. But the advantages are:
A. Actually warm at beach.
Which of course didn’t apply to my family last weekend when it rained the entire visit.
B. Coincides with ripened strawberry fields.
So that’s where the kids and I headed yesterday. Yes. I pulled them free from their electronic forcefield and headed up to the local pick-your-own field.
Here we are. Or here are my chilln’.
Okay. I called this one Grapes of Wrath because it makes me think of migrant workers.
But I digress.
Yes. We headed to the fields with our buckets and picked. The berries were huge and beautiful.
Don’t tell but we were eating lots while we were picking.
Or my children ate lots and I stole a few every now and then because they looked irresistible. I’m such the firstborn. Breaking perceived rules is like a federal offense even after 50 years.
So we got our lovely berries home, paying good honest money for those we picked and did not eat.
What does one do to prolong country mouse fantasy, this pseudo-Margaret Stewart moment of picking strawberries, bringing them home — to your nice home because you are not a migrant family — for your kids?
Strawberry Shortcake. That was my brain’s notion.
I could easily google a homemade shortbread recipe and whip up some cream and. . . .
Pooh.
I bought those ready made cakey shells that look suspiciously like those recalled contraceptive sponges — which decades ago were really cool before the FDSomething said that using them could make the insides of your hoochie rust away like a ’58 Edsel.
Darn that.
So I bought the prefab sponge cake and Reddi Wip, added the fresh non-itinerant-harvested berries, and you know what.
My kids INHALED it.
Just goes to a classic even a modern day, mail-it-in version, rocks.
Okay, if any of you would like to share your favorite way to inhale fresh strawberries, please share.
