Pick-Your-Own

The Keed

Pick-Your-Own.

Wednesday (June 20, 2007), contradicting the assembled and great wisdom of my all-knowing, tub-thumping siblings, who because of their religion have never made a mistake since their conversion, I had the awful temerity and unmitigated gall and horrific audacity to pick my own strawberries (pictured) for $1.89, instead up buying the plump, overblown strawberries at $3.49 jetted from Imperial Valley in Californy that taste like paste.
I’m married to a person who divides the year into picking seasons, and June is strawberry time.
Years ago the idea of picking my own strawberries was anathema, and I was sucked in by the plump jetted berries.
But then we had pick-your-own strawberries, and they were much better than supermarket strawberries.
The supermarkets have got hip, offering local strawberries, but even those are inferior to pick-your-own.
The local supermarket strawberries have sat around a while.
Strawberries start going stale after a couple hours.
The day-old strawberries from Floridy or Californy are dreadful.
Sometimes the great institutions of conventionality get beat.

The last time I picked my own strawberries (last year) I was severely excoriated for not buying supermarket strawberries.