Wednesday, April 11, 2007

Strawberry memory

Growing up in Kentucky, we eagerly anticipated strawberry season because all the local produce shops would be brimming with fresh-picked fruit grown just up the road. Every day, my sister and I ate bowl after bowl of strawberries, turning our lips red and our fingers sticky. My doctor even pronounced me allergic to strawberries, but I didn’t care, no fear of sudden death would keep me from strawberry season.

My sister and I used a plastic tool that scooped the top of the strawberries off, plucking away the cap of leaves and pulling out the hard part in the center. We scooped until our bowls were full and then we covered them in sugar.

After we finished the strawberries, a pile of sugar remained in the bottom of the bowl. Mine was always red and sweet with strawberry juice, and I’d scoop it out with a spoon to eat every gooey drop. It tasted sweeter and fresher than a melted popsicle, more perfect than a liquid lollipop.

My sister’s bowl never turned out like mine. She ended up with a pile of dry, white sugar crystals. My sister whined that she wanted hers to be like mine, syrupy and red with strawberry essence. I devised a method of crushing up a strawberry bit into her sugar, but it never came out the same as mine. Mine was just goo, but hers came out chunky and pulpy.

She cried to have sugar like mine, and my mom would give in and say, “Just give her your sugar, Christine.” It broke my heart to surrender my precious sweet, but in the end, it was easier to give my sister what she desired most—to be just like me.

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