You can take the girl out of the strawberry patch but ....

My  Mom grew up berry farming.  Many of her stories revolve around summers spent bent over strawberry patches, getting scratched up by raspberry canes, or picking blueberries on what was once called Lulu (huh?) Island and is now known as Richmond.  Although she hated those hot, sweltering, back breaking days, I can't think of a time when she hasn't had strawberries plants. She still has a tiny patch, tucked a midst a jumble of perennials, comfortably coexisting with resident snails, the occasional mouse and lots of satisfied birds.   We refer to the little bucket that she is able to pick every couple days as "harvesting" and even though she only has a few plants, she gives the berries away to me and to her neigbours. One day I brought  a few of her berries to work on a day in which a coworker brought in a basket from the grocery store.  His mammoth, perfectly coloured berries looked disturbingly unnatural next to my motley collection which, if examined closely, showed signs of having recently fed a few birds.  I know that picking those berries is painful for my Mom, her arthritic fingers need hours afterwards to rest. My Mom comes from a time period, or maybe a culture that doesn't say, "I love you" but when she hands me my yogurt container filled with the fruits (ahem) of her labour, the gesture speaks volumes.

Berry Delicious