When I was a little, little girl, my father had a strawberry patch. I *loved* strawberries. I would eat anything with strawberries in it or on it. I would crawl out, before I could even walk, into the strawberry patch and eat any strawberry I could get my little fingers on, even the green ones. I called them "bobbies" (once I could talk...I was eating strawberries long before I was verbal). There's a great picture on my wall of my father holding me out like a little airplane by the straps of my overalls. I'm covered in mud and strawberry juice, with a big grin on my face. Today I decided to forgo the mud, and only go for the ripe ones, but I'm just as ecstatic at 36 as I was at less than one to be eating bobbies from the backyard.
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