Thursday afternoon when my neighbor stopped by to see if I wanted to go strawberry picking on Friday morning, I was delighted. Not only was my mom coming for the weekend, but we were going to school for a Flag Day celebration. Then I had plans for us all to go to a Violet Festival on Saturday, complete with a town-wide yard sale and parade. Now strawberry picking! My weekend was shaping up to be perfect.
I was fueled by sunshine and energized by excitement on Friday, until we got to the strawberry farm. The elderly woman behind the counter assured us there were NO strawberries. Apparently a late frost killed them all and they were waiting for a second batch. This kind old woman underestimated the determination of two women and a preschooler with strawberries in their eyes. Finally she conceded to let us check.
I am happy to report that we each filled a box to overflowing. We canvassed serious territory, plucking berries and exchanging stories. Others came and quickly left, claiming there were no berries in this patch; however, I realized that if you want something badly enough, you work to get it no matter the obstacles.
An allergic reaction?
I only know it’s ITCHY.
The kind of itch that makes you want to tear the flesh from your bone, because pain would momentarily relieve the itch. Currently it is up and down both arms, my hands and my lower legs. Unfortunately it’s still spreading, so by tomorrow afternoon, I should be ready for a padded room. I am certain this itch will make me lose my mind.
I’ve tried, Calamine lotion, Benadryl Lotion, Cortisone Lotion, and a baking soda/vinegar paste. Believe it or not, the paste worked the best. Any other suggestions are welcome.
In spite of the itches, we managed to make strawberry jam on Friday night. I know I’ve revived my inner Martha, but my domestic skills exploded in flurry of action that almost frightens me. I mean, I started my day in the strawberry fields and ended it by canning the fruit of my labor.
What is next?
I fear I’ll be grinding wheat, or worse, cleaning the closets!
Is there no limit to my domestic prowess?
Notice the frightened look on my mother’s face?
She gets like that when I suggest we cook something. I think she’s afraid to work in the same kitchen with me. For the record, she was completely in charge of the jam, because she has experience and I couldn’t even read the recipe correctly. My mom did have a moment of doubt as I dragged her around looking for canning jars, but I convinced her that I needed this jam. I want strawberries to mix with butter-cream icing in November/December/January, and after contracting this hellish rash, I was going to preserve every last strawberry if it took me all night.
Did you ever go picking?
uh, strawberries, I mean…not your nose