For the majority of my adult life I’ve gone on a yearly pilgrimage to the strawberry fields wherever I was residing at the time and spent a few hours in the blazing sun or pouring rain, with or without kids eating more than they harvested for the cause, in years where the berries were large and watery or small and concentrated, to haul home an obscene poundage of fresh strawberries for my annual Strawberrypalooza.
Recipes for everything strawberry! Homemade ice cream and fudge sauce, roasted strawberries for the perfect angel food cake, strawberry limeade, and strawberries and cream biscuits. Stretchy pants optional but recommended.
Every Spring I look forward to two things of the verdant variety. First is planting my pot garden (that still amuses me; for the easily scandalized among us, I am referring to my vegetable container garden) and the second, more reliable, is strawberry season. I start trolling the pick-your-own farm websites at the beginning of May and then give a week or two to clear out the scary die-hard pickers (those folks that come in with their own containers, jam and jelly on their minds, and a sense of territory that would put a pit bull to shame).
I told the boys I was starting this blog to create a family “recipe book” so that if I were to die in a firey ball tomorrow, at least there would be good food at the wake (hey, they’re 8 and 9 … they love that sort of talk). They immediately went cross-eyed when I told them I would start with Pasta Fazool (pasta e fagiola for the purist). “No! No! If you die in a fiery ball, I want compost cookies!” “Me, too! Me, too!” I’m pretty sure I heard a mumbled “who likes beans anyway?” but I ignored that sacrilege and pulled out the mixer.