H went through an anti-strawberry phase. It lasted, I don’t know, a year or two. I was baffled when he told me he didn’t like them. It had never occurred to me that someone might not care for them. Much less someone I know, someone I’m related to, one who bears the imprint of my genetic makeup…

We had a strawberry patch when I was growing up. It wasn’t big, it was in our yard, and I don’t think it had anything else in it. We also had a garden that we called “the garden” and “the potato patch” where we grew squash. Gotcha! I’m kidding, The Potato Patch was for potatoes (Dan Quayle is out there somewhere).

But I could understand it. Strawberries, especially the bigger ones or maybe different varieties, can have an off-putting texture. They can get a little tough and, I don’t know, mealy.

And I always thought they were outrageously sweet but I used to dip the bastards in sugar. Anything is sweet dipped in sugar. Your toe would be sweet dipped in sugar, come to think of it…

We were at my brother’s and his wife’s place over the weekend. There were some strawberries there and H was chowing down. I said “so you like strawberries now?” He shook his head yes because his mouth was full. We finally had to tell our boys to quit eating all their aunt and uncle’s strawberries.

So Katie picked up some strawberries at the store the next day. They are sitting on our counter now three days later, nearly untouched. She can’t seem to get the boys to eat them.

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