The Season of Strawberries and Charlie

Driving around the Upstate New York countryside, it’s difficult to go very far without passing a “Fresh Strawberries” sign.  This is the time of year when you must consume mass quantities of the glossy berries, sans preservative that makes the ones shipped in from South America taste like plastic.

This is also the time of year we celebrate a birthday in our household.  Little Charlie, number three child, turns 20 tomorrow, June 25th.  Like some alignment of the forces of nature, Charlie loves the berries that burst ripe as he turns another year older.

From the time Charlie was one year old, I knew he would either love strawberries or be repulsed by them.   That first year, our petite French Au Pair we called Big Natalie to distinguish her from our own three year old Natalie, two year old Harry, and one year old Charlie went to one of the local farmer’s fields to pick strawberries, as much an activity for the children as an opportunity to get fresh berries.

Big Natalie, Natalie and Harry all scampered into the fields with their green pressed paper quart boxes.  Charlie could not yet walk, but he could sit, so I plopped him in the middle of a row of strawberries so he could wait for the rest of us to do our important work.   In those days, I always looked at the non-walking, non-talking child as the appendage to the rest of us, the one who would have been just as happy to be at home napping instead of getting dragged along in a hot station wagon filled with toddler noise.

Charlie’s love of strawberries became apparent very quickly.  To keep him occupied, I dropped a couple of picked berries in his lap.  It could have been dog poop because Charlie was at the age where he picked up anything within reach and put it in his mouth.  Well, he was shoveling in the berries faster than I could deliver them.  He must have eaten three quarts in 45 minutes.  I was certain his intestines would pop.

Well they didn’t, but his fate was sealed.  Charlie has loved strawberries ever since.  The other night for dinner, I cut up a quart for the family dinner table and Charlie ate all of them himself.  Some things never change.

Moral of the story:  If you put a baby on the floor, expect he will love for his entire life that which he can reach and get into his mouth.  And just in case, keep the dog poop far away.