Anticipation, it's more than a song title, it's almost angst at this time of year.
Sometimes I go with the granddaughters because it's important that this be passed down to them but most times I go picking alone because I love the solitude of the early morning, the birds, the conversations of the grandmas around me passing this ritual on to their grandchildren. I hear them talk about the jam they will make when they get home.
For me, it's the fresh strawberry pie. I wait all year for this pie because it can't be made with trucked in from Florida or Mexico or California berries. It can only be made with fresh picked local-not-bred-for-shipping berries. The kind that juice and dribble down your chin and sticky your fingers. Those berries.
About two and a half more months.