strawberry picking

Before I moved to Long Island, I'd been nothing-picking.  In the last year, I've been raspberry picking, blueberry picking, blackberry picking, peach picking, and apple picking.  When my mom came for a visit last week, we added strawberry picking to the list.  

We headed out East to a farm I'd visited before, got our baskets from the farm stand, and marched out into the field.  I had Bo in a carrier and he squawked in protest every time I leaned over to pick a berry, so I stood around and snapped photos with my phone and watched my mom go to work.

   

There she is . . . That photo kind of reminds me of Christina's World.  Or maybe that's just because I saw it the other day at the MOMA? 

Don't be fooled by the above picture . . . I really only picked about 10 berries.

As opposed to the four quarts my mother amassed: 

By the time we got home after perusing antique stores and outfitting Bo for the next five years at the outlet mall, the berries were a little riper and the car smelled like Lip Smackers.  What do you do with four quarts of strawberries?

  

 strawberry muffins:

strawberry shortcake:

And most recently, strawberry ice cream.  The strawberry stash has officially been depleted and we have all officially gained five pounds.