'Tis the season for reclaiming the 'hood.
Finals are over, apartments are being emptied out and Jackson Ward's true population - those here for more than a few semesters - gets pared back to its devotees: the musically-inclined scientist, the couple who were original pioneers, the slightly OCD porch painter, the perky dog-walking couple.
All of a sudden, parking spaces reveal themselves where parent-bought vehicles recently occupied valuable real estate. For a change, the VCU circulator vans aren't endlessly circulating outside my open windows.
Practically as soon as the latest rains of May let up, visions of strawberry picking began dancing in my head. Setting my recent mental machinations aside, there's a lot to be said for doing something as simple and honest as picking food from a field, even if it's only 8 pounds' worth.
And if not in May, then not at all, at least in these parts.
At the uncivilized hour of 9:07 (notable in and of itself), I was calling a friend - the one with a fiancee and two kids, so plenty of berry lovers, making him a sure bet to say yes - inviting him to join me for a morning of migrant labor-like activity.
I have plenty of friends I would never think of asking to join me for such a thing, but he's not one of them.
Both of us were flattered when the woman who provided our picking baskets complimented us on our wide-brimmed hats, but once in the fields, we saw that it was more about the novelty value of them than anything else.
Easily 98% of the people out there, adults and children, were hat-less despite the clear sky, bright sun and morning heat. What self-respecting fruit picker doesn't wear a little shade?
I don't want to come across as some sort of expert field hand because I'd never picked a strawberry until I moved to Richmond in '86. For whatever reason, I took to the ritual that led me out of the city every May and got me bent over green rows looking for the reddest berries.
Maybe it's a continuity thing. So much has changed about my life in those three decades, but some habits I hang on to. There's never been a summer where I didn't go stay at the beach. I can't remember the last time I drove over a bridge without having at least one window down, even in winter.
I can't help but acknowledge that picking strawberries satisfies something in me, providing a, what, connection to who I was? Remnant of who I thought I'd be? Excuse to do something mindless and yet productive, so unlike how I earn my living?
Too complicated. Eating warm berries out of the field soothes the soul and stains the fingers.
Does a body good every May.
Showing posts with label strawberry picking. Show all posts
Showing posts with label strawberry picking. Show all posts
Wednesday, May 17, 2017
Saturday, May 30, 2015
Lick My Tongue
Ask me for a dark secret and I'll share with the entire room. FYI, I can also stare, get lost and cook.
Walking the pipeline so often, I've seen plenty of people fishing but yesterday was the first day I ever saw men throwing nets. It seemed so, I don't know, European or old-school. Charming and unexpected.
According to the one man staying dry on the sand (as opposed to the two with nets wading crotch-deep in the river in their shorts), the were casting for small perch, although in the 15 or so minutes I watched, they pulled in exactly zero.
Still, it's always cool to see new things happening on the river.
Despite my recent birthday, I am even still at this age navigationally-challenged. Today on my annual trek to Gallmeyer Farms in Henrico, I looked up a new route. Keep it fresh, right?
Instead, I somehow ended up on 895, almost immediately passing over the very road I'd been searching for. After getting off on 295 simply to escape the unknown, I eventually wound my way back to the strawberry farm.
Time eclipsed? Turned out to be a tragic 35 minutes for what should have been a 12-minute drive. It no longer even embarrasses me, it's just who I am.
Coming back from the farm with the box of ripe strawberries perfuming the car, I determined to go back the way I'd intended to come in hopes of seeing where I'd made my mistake. But the failure was technology's, not mine (vindicated!), because the directions had left out a key turn that would have put me on the correct road
Just so you know, this is a very satisfying moment for someone who gets lost as often as I do (such as Tuesday evening leaving Merroir for my parents' house and missing a turn...but I blame the darkness). I hadn't done a thing wrong for a change.
The reason I'd gone for strawberries was partly selfish (they're magical right now) and partly intentional. I was hosting a dinner party tonight and wanted them for dessert, along with the pound cake I'd put in the oven at 11:45 p.m. last night, by the way, the coolest time to bake when you don't use air conditioning.
With clear instructions from one of the guests ("Not gonna lie, I'm not easy to cook for. No meat, no dairy"), I'd chosen Alton Brown's guacamole and someone named Melissa Rubel Jacobson's chipotle shrimp tostada recipes, both of which went over smashingly well. In the process, I went through four avocados, three limes, two colors of tomatoes and onions and most of my cilantro plant.
Given today's heat and the amount of cooking going on in my bite-sized kitchen, I realized late in the game that I should have chilled the metal bowl and beaters before whipping heavy cream for the dessert but managed to achieve stiff peaks even so (culinary aside: the phrase "stiff peaks" ties with "hard ball stage" in candy-making for smuttiest sounding cooking terminology).
Is there anything more May-like than just-picked strawberries and cream? Don't get me wrong, I enjoy pound cake, but it plays second fiddle to berries and mounds of whipped cream this time of year.
On my walk to Belle Isle this morning, I'd noticed that Coalition Comedy was doing a "Dating Game" show tonight and immediately made a mental note. It's true, I remember that cheesy dating show, so I adored the idea of improv comedians riffing on it.
Paying my admission, I heard a woman member of the troupe tell a male one, "Lick my tongue," a proposition which appalled him. "What? No!" he said, backing up. "This is workplace harassment!"
The show hadn't started and already I was laughing.
On the counter was sign suggesting patrons write an anonymous "deep secret" on a piece of paper for use in the sketch. Example: "I call my Mom when I score." I considered some possibilities and then jotted down a secret.
The name of the dating game was "Secret Suitcase"- "The dating game where two contestants fall in love by ignoring all the major red flags!" - and the premise was identical to the real "Dating Game" with one lucky contestant and three eligible men or women.
The recorded music resembled the "Jeopardy" theme.
In the first game, it was a cocky plastic surgeon who referred to himself as a "titty doctor" meeting eligible bachelor girls Crystal ("I have a snack meat addiction"), Denise Jr. ("I judge men who don't sleep naked") and Emily ("I used to date Fabio") and having to eliminate one.
In between rounds, our host did half-assed commercials for Samsonite luggage (all the secrets were written on cardboard "suitcases"), saying things like "Samsonite Luggage...leather and so many compartments" and "Samsonite, what else kind of luggage is there?"
Much of the humor came from the inane questions the emcee asked when he put contestants in the "hot spot." Like, if you had to eat someone who was still alive, how would you do it? (Well, I have a robust pinking shears collection so I'd just cut him up...").
After intermission, we had a woman, Kelsey, choosing from three bachelors to pick out the best of true love. "Look at these three fine, strapping bachelors," the host said.
"I'd do any of them," the giggling Kelsey replied. When one of the bachelors revealed that his member was fake, she dealt with it. "As long as it's a really big fake..."
Another secret read, "I have no idea where my life is going and for the first time, I'm okay with that." One time, a bachelor mentioned the "Kama Sutra" and the host told Kelsey, "I think that's a sex book." Her pause was momentary.
"If it is, I'll start reading!" she gushed.
Once she'd decided on a bachelor and he came out to meet her, they danced together (just like on the TV show) and then the host tossed his index cards of questions up in the air, also like on the show. Somebody had done their cornball homework.
And, as it happens, my deep, dark secret was used in the show, not that anyone but me knew. The woman who'd appropriated it ended up being the bachelor's chosen date. Coincidence?
There must be something to my secrets after all. And, no, I do not call my Mom when I score.
Walking the pipeline so often, I've seen plenty of people fishing but yesterday was the first day I ever saw men throwing nets. It seemed so, I don't know, European or old-school. Charming and unexpected.
According to the one man staying dry on the sand (as opposed to the two with nets wading crotch-deep in the river in their shorts), the were casting for small perch, although in the 15 or so minutes I watched, they pulled in exactly zero.
Still, it's always cool to see new things happening on the river.
Despite my recent birthday, I am even still at this age navigationally-challenged. Today on my annual trek to Gallmeyer Farms in Henrico, I looked up a new route. Keep it fresh, right?
Instead, I somehow ended up on 895, almost immediately passing over the very road I'd been searching for. After getting off on 295 simply to escape the unknown, I eventually wound my way back to the strawberry farm.
Time eclipsed? Turned out to be a tragic 35 minutes for what should have been a 12-minute drive. It no longer even embarrasses me, it's just who I am.
Coming back from the farm with the box of ripe strawberries perfuming the car, I determined to go back the way I'd intended to come in hopes of seeing where I'd made my mistake. But the failure was technology's, not mine (vindicated!), because the directions had left out a key turn that would have put me on the correct road
Just so you know, this is a very satisfying moment for someone who gets lost as often as I do (such as Tuesday evening leaving Merroir for my parents' house and missing a turn...but I blame the darkness). I hadn't done a thing wrong for a change.
The reason I'd gone for strawberries was partly selfish (they're magical right now) and partly intentional. I was hosting a dinner party tonight and wanted them for dessert, along with the pound cake I'd put in the oven at 11:45 p.m. last night, by the way, the coolest time to bake when you don't use air conditioning.
With clear instructions from one of the guests ("Not gonna lie, I'm not easy to cook for. No meat, no dairy"), I'd chosen Alton Brown's guacamole and someone named Melissa Rubel Jacobson's chipotle shrimp tostada recipes, both of which went over smashingly well. In the process, I went through four avocados, three limes, two colors of tomatoes and onions and most of my cilantro plant.
Given today's heat and the amount of cooking going on in my bite-sized kitchen, I realized late in the game that I should have chilled the metal bowl and beaters before whipping heavy cream for the dessert but managed to achieve stiff peaks even so (culinary aside: the phrase "stiff peaks" ties with "hard ball stage" in candy-making for smuttiest sounding cooking terminology).
Is there anything more May-like than just-picked strawberries and cream? Don't get me wrong, I enjoy pound cake, but it plays second fiddle to berries and mounds of whipped cream this time of year.
On my walk to Belle Isle this morning, I'd noticed that Coalition Comedy was doing a "Dating Game" show tonight and immediately made a mental note. It's true, I remember that cheesy dating show, so I adored the idea of improv comedians riffing on it.
Paying my admission, I heard a woman member of the troupe tell a male one, "Lick my tongue," a proposition which appalled him. "What? No!" he said, backing up. "This is workplace harassment!"
The show hadn't started and already I was laughing.
On the counter was sign suggesting patrons write an anonymous "deep secret" on a piece of paper for use in the sketch. Example: "I call my Mom when I score." I considered some possibilities and then jotted down a secret.
The name of the dating game was "Secret Suitcase"- "The dating game where two contestants fall in love by ignoring all the major red flags!" - and the premise was identical to the real "Dating Game" with one lucky contestant and three eligible men or women.
The recorded music resembled the "Jeopardy" theme.
In the first game, it was a cocky plastic surgeon who referred to himself as a "titty doctor" meeting eligible bachelor girls Crystal ("I have a snack meat addiction"), Denise Jr. ("I judge men who don't sleep naked") and Emily ("I used to date Fabio") and having to eliminate one.
In between rounds, our host did half-assed commercials for Samsonite luggage (all the secrets were written on cardboard "suitcases"), saying things like "Samsonite Luggage...leather and so many compartments" and "Samsonite, what else kind of luggage is there?"
Much of the humor came from the inane questions the emcee asked when he put contestants in the "hot spot." Like, if you had to eat someone who was still alive, how would you do it? (Well, I have a robust pinking shears collection so I'd just cut him up...").
After intermission, we had a woman, Kelsey, choosing from three bachelors to pick out the best of true love. "Look at these three fine, strapping bachelors," the host said.
"I'd do any of them," the giggling Kelsey replied. When one of the bachelors revealed that his member was fake, she dealt with it. "As long as it's a really big fake..."
Another secret read, "I have no idea where my life is going and for the first time, I'm okay with that." One time, a bachelor mentioned the "Kama Sutra" and the host told Kelsey, "I think that's a sex book." Her pause was momentary.
"If it is, I'll start reading!" she gushed.
Once she'd decided on a bachelor and he came out to meet her, they danced together (just like on the TV show) and then the host tossed his index cards of questions up in the air, also like on the show. Somebody had done their cornball homework.
And, as it happens, my deep, dark secret was used in the show, not that anyone but me knew. The woman who'd appropriated it ended up being the bachelor's chosen date. Coincidence?
There must be something to my secrets after all. And, no, I do not call my Mom when I score.
Thursday, May 22, 2014
Sweet as May
They say timing is everything.
Two things that reliably happen around the same time every year are strawberry season and my birthday.
With that in mind, I figured today was a good afternoon to head over to Gallmeyer Farms to pick strawberries. I could have called first, but why? It must be strawberry season by my birthday eve, right?
Eschewing the highway for the back roads of the east end, I followed Darbytown Road to the strawberry farm that long ago won my devotion over the mega operations in Ashland and Chesterfield.
Except as I drove up the winding, dirt road, there was a suspicious lack of people in the fields and cars parked by the old barn.
Uh oh.
Approaching the table, straw hat in hand, where a woman sat, I tentatively asked if there were berries to pick.
"We had 500 people come through this morning," she said in an apologetic way. She corrected the number to 486, but even so, it didn't bode well for there being much left for me. "It depends on how many you wanted to pick. Enough to eat or for jam or something?"
For many years, the purpose of my picking was to make strawberry jam, an activity that would take up the entire afternoon after returning from the fields. It was worth it, though, for the taste of hours-old berries captured in jam providing a reminder of summer in cold, winter months.
But not anymore. Now I pick solely for eating and today I was also picking for a gift for another Gemini.
When the woman heard that, she reassured me they had plenty of berries for me to pick. They were located in the weeds, she explained, a 14-year old section of small, early season berries.
I've picked that type before and while it's more work because the berries are small, they are so much sweeter than the golf ball sized varieties most farmers grow.
"We were going to burn that section this year and replant, but then we saw we had so many berries coming in, we let 'em go," she said. This year's crazy weather had wreaked havoc with everyone's strawberry crops (Chesterfield Berry farm hadn't even opened, she said), it seemed, so they were grateful when the unexpected berries came up.
And I was grateful to have them to pick.
So I headed out to the weeds, the sole occupant of the entire fields, to pick berries. She was right about the weeds, wildflowers and clover, crowding the little berries in their no longer neat rows.
Didn't matter to me. I zig-zagged all over, bending over every time I spotted red on the ground. It was a tad more challenging than usual because sometimes the little gems were almost hidden from view by the weeds, but I kept at it.
I don't mind bending over for a single berry. In fact, walking the beach one summer with my youngest sister, I began picking up sea shells, no matter how tiny, but only if they were a certain color.
"Boy, you'll bend over for anything," she'd observed, laughing, unwilling to do the same.
So, yes, even if a plant held only one ripe berry, I bent down to snag it and before long I had a basket full of beautifully ripe strawberries.
When I got back to the table, the woman scanned the contents of my basket and picked up one berry. "That's going to be the sweetest one right there," she pronounced.
Because it was the tiniest? Because of its atypical shape? "Because it's got the most beautiful color," she said.
486 people had missed that little beauty, leaving it for me to discover and pop into my mouth. Sweet as May.
Timed it just right after all.
Two things that reliably happen around the same time every year are strawberry season and my birthday.
With that in mind, I figured today was a good afternoon to head over to Gallmeyer Farms to pick strawberries. I could have called first, but why? It must be strawberry season by my birthday eve, right?
Eschewing the highway for the back roads of the east end, I followed Darbytown Road to the strawberry farm that long ago won my devotion over the mega operations in Ashland and Chesterfield.
Except as I drove up the winding, dirt road, there was a suspicious lack of people in the fields and cars parked by the old barn.
Uh oh.
Approaching the table, straw hat in hand, where a woman sat, I tentatively asked if there were berries to pick.
"We had 500 people come through this morning," she said in an apologetic way. She corrected the number to 486, but even so, it didn't bode well for there being much left for me. "It depends on how many you wanted to pick. Enough to eat or for jam or something?"
For many years, the purpose of my picking was to make strawberry jam, an activity that would take up the entire afternoon after returning from the fields. It was worth it, though, for the taste of hours-old berries captured in jam providing a reminder of summer in cold, winter months.
But not anymore. Now I pick solely for eating and today I was also picking for a gift for another Gemini.
When the woman heard that, she reassured me they had plenty of berries for me to pick. They were located in the weeds, she explained, a 14-year old section of small, early season berries.
I've picked that type before and while it's more work because the berries are small, they are so much sweeter than the golf ball sized varieties most farmers grow.
"We were going to burn that section this year and replant, but then we saw we had so many berries coming in, we let 'em go," she said. This year's crazy weather had wreaked havoc with everyone's strawberry crops (Chesterfield Berry farm hadn't even opened, she said), it seemed, so they were grateful when the unexpected berries came up.
And I was grateful to have them to pick.
So I headed out to the weeds, the sole occupant of the entire fields, to pick berries. She was right about the weeds, wildflowers and clover, crowding the little berries in their no longer neat rows.
Didn't matter to me. I zig-zagged all over, bending over every time I spotted red on the ground. It was a tad more challenging than usual because sometimes the little gems were almost hidden from view by the weeds, but I kept at it.
I don't mind bending over for a single berry. In fact, walking the beach one summer with my youngest sister, I began picking up sea shells, no matter how tiny, but only if they were a certain color.
"Boy, you'll bend over for anything," she'd observed, laughing, unwilling to do the same.
So, yes, even if a plant held only one ripe berry, I bent down to snag it and before long I had a basket full of beautifully ripe strawberries.
When I got back to the table, the woman scanned the contents of my basket and picked up one berry. "That's going to be the sweetest one right there," she pronounced.
Because it was the tiniest? Because of its atypical shape? "Because it's got the most beautiful color," she said.
486 people had missed that little beauty, leaving it for me to discover and pop into my mouth. Sweet as May.
Timed it just right after all.
Tuesday, May 29, 2012
Eastward, Ho!
All bases were covered for Memorial Day and all in the east end, it should be noted
First there was the history component which took us down to the river to see the reproductions of the Nina and the Pinta that are here this week.
Floating in the James were the two small, black boats like the ones Columbus used to sail from Spain to this country.
Walking down toward them, the RVA skyline was glistening behind the ropes and lines of the ship.
The view looked like it had been Photo-shopped in.
Shocking was the scale of the Nina which was built for the average male size in 1492, namely 4'8" to 5'3." Even I felt cramped at 5'5".
Honestly, it was a little Alice in Wonderland-like with the low ceilings, short doors and abbreviated sleeping quarters we got to see.
The Pinta was the same as the Nina except at one and a half times the scale, so it seemed less claustrophobic.
One of the guys aboard the Nina scoffed at the over-sized Pinta, saying, "That's why we make fun of them when we're not working. We have fierce Nina pride."
All I can say is you'd have to in order to be willing to be crammed onto such a small boat and sail from port to port like they're doing.
They are on a North American tour, after all. I know; I saw the t-shirts.
But there's more. A sign seeking "Crew Wanted" was very specific.
"If you don't mind working on little sleep, having little privacy, getting some blisters, possibly suffering seasickness, taking orders and sharing in menial tasks, you're our type of candidate."
I accept that I am not.
The best view was from the poop deck of the Pinta where a good breeze and the view from downriver made me forget the cramped heat of the captain's quarters, a veritable sweatbox.
Turns out that they'd even fired the cannon yesterday, bringing scads of local people to their windows and doors to see if the world was coming to an end.
I was sorry to have missed the cannon, but the history nerd part of me was satisfied, so we took off for something more mindless, although certainly holiday-appropriate.
Namely, strawberry picking.
True, I'm not really a hunter/gatherer, but I can play one for an afternoon.
And yes, it's definitely the end of strawberry picking season, but what the hell?
If you can't have fresh-picked strawberries on Memorial Day you may as well hang up your Yankee doodle dandy.
By the time we got to the Berry Patch, it was late in the day and there was only one other person picking.
It didn't matter. One of us had never picked strawberries before and the other was a pro, so as long as we got some berries, everyone would be happy.
The rows were definitely picked over, but with half an eye and a willingness to bend over to find the berries remaining red and plump on the interior of the plants, the pickin's were good.
As we worked our rows to fill a basket, a man started down the driveway and called to us.
"You gotta pick 'em yourself and then you still gotta pay?" he asked incredulously, noting, "I thought they were bigger!"
I could have made a corny joke but didn't. And on some farms they do grow gigantic varieties, but not this place.
Here they grow a smaller, sweeter type (without pesticides, so even better) that take longer to pick but reward with truer strawberry flavor, which I told the guy.
Not persuasively enough apparently, because he eventually left rather than take on the challenge.
What, everyone doesn't want to sweat in the late afternoon sun gathering crops like we did?
The cashier was surprised at how quickly we'd picked almost four pounds and sent us on our way, mentioning that it was the last day for picking there.
Timing is everything, at least in fruit picking and romance.
We made the final stop Osborne boat landing so we could have a waterside picnic.
Settling on a pink spread under the shade of tall trees, we watched boats pass as we dug into roast chicken, legume and olive salad, fruit salad, watermelon (duh, it's Memorial Day) and leftover savory tarts from last night's superb picnic.
After a leisurely repast, we strolled down to the river to see the sunset and the source if all the childish screaming that inevitably accompanies water play.
Sitting on a large piece of driftwood on the sand provided a placid view of the river headed east.
Up on the pier we saw people fishing ("You should see the size of the catfish that guy just caught!" we were told) while we admired the sunset reflecting on the water.
Our final resting place was a bench in a wooded area near the gazebo where a family group had set up their outdoor meal and was now happily splashing in the river, taking turns riding a jet ski.
It was a 21st century Norman Rockwell scene, "Memorial Day in the County."
We headed out, passing Poe's Pub where a sign said, "Sorry, we're open."
Tempting as that was (and it wasn't), we decided to end our day in a most Memorial Day-like fashion.
Warm berries freshly picked were washed and hulled while heavy cream was beaten into submission with a touch of sugar to become whipped cream.
Forget history, watermelon and endless motorcyclists on the road today.
Nothing says summer's practically here like a big bowl of picked strawberries smothered in whipped cream.
I'd even go so far as to say it was as fine a way as any to bring to a close a worthy celebration of Memorial Day.
And definitely worthy of firing a canon.
First there was the history component which took us down to the river to see the reproductions of the Nina and the Pinta that are here this week.
Floating in the James were the two small, black boats like the ones Columbus used to sail from Spain to this country.
Walking down toward them, the RVA skyline was glistening behind the ropes and lines of the ship.
The view looked like it had been Photo-shopped in.
Shocking was the scale of the Nina which was built for the average male size in 1492, namely 4'8" to 5'3." Even I felt cramped at 5'5".
Honestly, it was a little Alice in Wonderland-like with the low ceilings, short doors and abbreviated sleeping quarters we got to see.
The Pinta was the same as the Nina except at one and a half times the scale, so it seemed less claustrophobic.
One of the guys aboard the Nina scoffed at the over-sized Pinta, saying, "That's why we make fun of them when we're not working. We have fierce Nina pride."
All I can say is you'd have to in order to be willing to be crammed onto such a small boat and sail from port to port like they're doing.
They are on a North American tour, after all. I know; I saw the t-shirts.
But there's more. A sign seeking "Crew Wanted" was very specific.
"If you don't mind working on little sleep, having little privacy, getting some blisters, possibly suffering seasickness, taking orders and sharing in menial tasks, you're our type of candidate."
I accept that I am not.
The best view was from the poop deck of the Pinta where a good breeze and the view from downriver made me forget the cramped heat of the captain's quarters, a veritable sweatbox.
Turns out that they'd even fired the cannon yesterday, bringing scads of local people to their windows and doors to see if the world was coming to an end.
I was sorry to have missed the cannon, but the history nerd part of me was satisfied, so we took off for something more mindless, although certainly holiday-appropriate.
Namely, strawberry picking.
True, I'm not really a hunter/gatherer, but I can play one for an afternoon.
And yes, it's definitely the end of strawberry picking season, but what the hell?
If you can't have fresh-picked strawberries on Memorial Day you may as well hang up your Yankee doodle dandy.
By the time we got to the Berry Patch, it was late in the day and there was only one other person picking.
It didn't matter. One of us had never picked strawberries before and the other was a pro, so as long as we got some berries, everyone would be happy.
The rows were definitely picked over, but with half an eye and a willingness to bend over to find the berries remaining red and plump on the interior of the plants, the pickin's were good.
As we worked our rows to fill a basket, a man started down the driveway and called to us.
"You gotta pick 'em yourself and then you still gotta pay?" he asked incredulously, noting, "I thought they were bigger!"
I could have made a corny joke but didn't. And on some farms they do grow gigantic varieties, but not this place.
Here they grow a smaller, sweeter type (without pesticides, so even better) that take longer to pick but reward with truer strawberry flavor, which I told the guy.
Not persuasively enough apparently, because he eventually left rather than take on the challenge.
What, everyone doesn't want to sweat in the late afternoon sun gathering crops like we did?
The cashier was surprised at how quickly we'd picked almost four pounds and sent us on our way, mentioning that it was the last day for picking there.
Timing is everything, at least in fruit picking and romance.
We made the final stop Osborne boat landing so we could have a waterside picnic.
Settling on a pink spread under the shade of tall trees, we watched boats pass as we dug into roast chicken, legume and olive salad, fruit salad, watermelon (duh, it's Memorial Day) and leftover savory tarts from last night's superb picnic.
After a leisurely repast, we strolled down to the river to see the sunset and the source if all the childish screaming that inevitably accompanies water play.
Sitting on a large piece of driftwood on the sand provided a placid view of the river headed east.
Up on the pier we saw people fishing ("You should see the size of the catfish that guy just caught!" we were told) while we admired the sunset reflecting on the water.
Our final resting place was a bench in a wooded area near the gazebo where a family group had set up their outdoor meal and was now happily splashing in the river, taking turns riding a jet ski.
It was a 21st century Norman Rockwell scene, "Memorial Day in the County."
We headed out, passing Poe's Pub where a sign said, "Sorry, we're open."
Tempting as that was (and it wasn't), we decided to end our day in a most Memorial Day-like fashion.
Warm berries freshly picked were washed and hulled while heavy cream was beaten into submission with a touch of sugar to become whipped cream.
Forget history, watermelon and endless motorcyclists on the road today.
Nothing says summer's practically here like a big bowl of picked strawberries smothered in whipped cream.
I'd even go so far as to say it was as fine a way as any to bring to a close a worthy celebration of Memorial Day.
And definitely worthy of firing a canon.
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