It’s officially summer — Yay! — and strawberry season is on!! Mr. G, honey really, really loves strawberries, but not more than me. Right, honey? Hmm. Okay. Maybe sometimes more than me.
In our neck of the region, there is a 220 acre fruit and vegetable farm that we visit regularly between May and the end of October, or pumpkin season. We like to eat as much seasonal and locally grown as we can. We can also get a pony ride.
We trekked out this morning to see what was available. As we pulled into the drive, we saw our favorite sign, looked at each other and yelled, “strawberries!” Strawberry season is on, and I haz a happy. We picked up a crate of six quarts, along with more basil, parsley and green pepper plants. Ours took a beating in the hailstorm last week.
We’ll be headed back there tomorrow, because it’s — yep, you got it — Strawberry Festival. You can have strawberry pancakes, watch a strawberry pie eating contest, get your face painted, have a wagon ride, and so it goes. I’m holding out for getting my face painted. I want a nice fat strawberry planted on my cheek. No. Not the tattoo cheek; the other cheek.
And, of course, you can always do the strawberry pick-your-own. I haven’t done that for a while. At three, I could eat my weight in strawberries. I don’t think I’m allowed to do that now. Still, it’s never a good idea to let me out in a pick-your-own field unsupervised. There should probably be a tongue check at the exit. Just sayin’.
It’s the longest day of the year today. What are you doing with it?