Strawberry
We gathered round the big blue ceramic salad bowl on the floor, full to the brim with strawberries. Washed and wet, each plump red fruit glistened softly in the afternoon sun streaming in from the window. The little green leaf tops sprang out in different directions like punk hair-dos, and made for perfect little handles as we all reached into the bowl in turn. This was our second or third batch of fresh berries from the Farmer’s Markets, and each bite reminded us why we had sped through the first two baskets. Adding to the ecstasy was the tall blue can of organic whipping cream that we shook and passed around, topping the berry in our hand with a swirl of sweet white cloud. The airy cream dissolved quickly on the tongue, softening and enhancing the slightly acidic juices that sprang out of the perfectly ripened flesh of the fruit. Not that California strawberries bought in California needed that extra kick of sweet, but we were indulging in a truly girl moment. Bindis adorning our 3rd eye, new flowy goddess clothes, a tiny fairy cottage nestled in the orchards overlooking a valley in wine country…
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