Last week we went strawberry picking in the hot, blazing sun. Each of us took a basket for our little cueillette, and for some reason darling-hulking-Russian was handed the kiddie basket, although no one can remember exactly why.
When you pick strawberries at this local farm, you hand them your basket to be weighed before you begin. I was first in line and submitted my big maternal basket - the mother-ship of berry picking - the little girls were next with their medium-sized plastic blue ones, and hubby brought up the rear, handing over a basket that was light years too small for his amazonian frame.
He approached me in the fields:
"Why did you hand me this tiny doll basket? The ladies at the counter were laughing at me and I couldn't figure out why! This is man-abuse!"
He's talking, but I'm thinking... look at the hotty with those massive shoulders!
The second time around, I took little darling and we picked in the pouring rain and hot sun by turn, the clothes drying on our backs after each "rinsing".
The sky was fiercely beautiful...
The result of all this berry-patching is fifteen jars of jam and a freezer full of sweet delight.