I am in the midst of a jam canning frenzy, and the 12 pounds of strawberries I got at the farmer's market just isn't enough. This is compounded by the fact that my strawberry guy didn't come to the farmer's market after my first big score, and batches two and three cleaned me out.
What's a girl to do?
Well. If the strawberries won't come to you, you have to go to the strawberries.
Independence, Iowa. America's fame is in their name.
Bagge has pick your own strawberries with names like Honeyoye, L'Amour, Cavendish, Mesabi, Jewel and Eros. The British Guy and I made an afternoon outing of it, and spent a lovely breezy hour picking berries.
Berry picking is very zen when you get into the rhythm: sweep leaves aside, find ripe berries, pop off from stems and deposit into basket, shuffle down row, sweep leaves aside. I think I would make a pretty good farm worker, I searched long and hard for all the ripe berries and nabbed each and every one, except that my toes went numb from too much crouching. So maybe not a farm worker afterall. Or different footwear.
The berry frenzy takes over after a while. You are picking from one plant and glance down the row to stretch your neck, and a brilliant red flash catches your eye. There, just out of arm's reach...the perfect berry. So ripe and luscious and delicious looking. It must be picked! You pick it, and gloat. But now it looks just like all the other berries piled in your basket. Then you glance down the row and a brilliant red flash catches your eye...
When all was said and done, we left with 29.7 pounds of strawberries at a buck fifty a pound.
The British Guy: 14.3 pounds
Jammy Chick: 15.4 pounds
Not that I'm keeping score or anything.
Obviously someone has less will power!
Posted by: Cheshire Cat | 17 June 2012 at 04:33 PM
Or maybe he was eating more than he was picking!
Posted by: Ingrid @ Jammy Chicken | 18 June 2012 at 08:04 AM