Strawberry poisoning

16 May 2008

We washed them, so it wasn’t the insecticide. It is just this: our stomachs can’t hold that many sweet and cool, soft, California ripe, juicy, red strawberries.

Oh little mouse, What are you doing?

I, for one, was just sampling the available produce. Lemons and lettuce are ready enough, I suppose, but why not strawberries when they are so easy to come by! They sell them here by the double flat; twelve of those little baskets- the flimsy, green baskets I horded as a girl to make dolly-shopping carts and handy treasure keeps.

And they just sat there, plump, on the counter, their seductive smell asking us not to let them go to rot in this record mid-May heat.

So we ate them. All. And now, red-sticky-fingered, we are sitting in a miniature garden of flimsy baskets and strawberry caps. My grin is painted juicy red and you’ve a sticky smudge across your chin—sure signs of strawberry poisoning.