Wednesday, June 6, 2012

Strawberry Picking

'Tis the Season. Strawberry season, that is.
This weekend we made the trek to Olive Berry Acres in Mazon, IL, where despite our kooky Midwest spring of 80-degree March and frosty April, they have fields bursting with ripe berries and plenty of buckets at the ready! At least they did this past weekend. My apologies if you missed the show. It happens so fast. 
The farm is a charming spot to spend a summer morning but don't forget the sunscreen. There's not much shade to be found in a strawberry patch. Luckily the munchkins were adequately slathered and hatted and Mufasa is impervious to sun, or so he claims. But I missed a spot on my own shoulder and learned the lesson the hard way.
We managed close to eight pounds of strawberries in about an hour. Not bad considering each and every berry Roo picked required a thorough inspection by mom or dad before going into his bucket. His rules, not mine.
Looly, Bean, and Roo are seasoned strawberry pickers at this point and don't require the coaxing and cajoling I needed to meet my quota as a child laborer in the fields with my mother. They're happy to pick and pluck as long as they can snag a few juicy bites along the way. The raspberries, however, proved a bit trickier.
I'd forgotten the thorns. With no jeans or long sleeves for the troops, raspberries were up to me and I have the Paris Metro map in blood on my forearms to prove it.
And since our city kids don't often experience the thrills of my being charged by a bull or abandoned by siblings in the middle of a dense cornfield, they thoroughly enjoyed playing farm kids for a day.


  1. Okay, seriously, it was a heifer, not a bull. What an imagination!

    1. You say tomato I sat tamahto. I remember a ring through that monster's nostrils!