Strawberries Fields and Little White Pineapple Lies

By Kathleen Daelemans

I have four quarts of strawberries left in my refrigerator from the weekend. I had twelve all told on Friday. I went strawberry picking with my thirteen year old niece, Erin and her good friend Nicole. They were here for Auntie Camp.

Auntie Camp takes place at my year-round "summer home" just about every weekend of the year. And on weekdays in the summer. Some would call my place a lake retreat. Because it's one street up from a lake. And there's a private beach. And a boat club. And a private community center. But it's all very humble in an authentic Leave-it-to-Beaver summer camp kind of way. There's no golf club, no private dining room and no pool. In fact, there's nothing hoighty-toighty about our beach living.

We spend hours snorkeling in muddy waters looking for minnows. We jump off our dock into swaying seaweed and pretend we don't feel it. We take our paddle boat, the "Kona", on discovery voyages across the lake. We paddle up canals we're not invited to explore. We vote on people's backyards and where we'd like to live if money were no object.

On days we don't leave the dock, we bury each other in the sand and make volcanoes and of course, mud pies. When we're not at the lake, we're in the kitchen cooking or we're in pursuit of food. We like to eat. Because of their ages (13) we bake a lot. And make pancakes and pizza. And walk for Blizzards in the heat of the day.

How to Get Your Teenager To Cheerfully Go Strawberry Picking

Last week I got a postcard in the mail from the Longs Family Farm, "my" local u-pick farm. The family sends post cards in advance of every new harvest. This week, the strawberries finally came in! No one loves strawberries more than I do except my niece Maya. She wasn't at Auntie Camp when the invitation to pick arrived, but Erin and Nicole were. I wasn't about to let two unpredictable teenagers ruin my favorite week of the year so as I was strategically serving them their favorite breakfast of peanut butter, chocolate chip, banana pancakes withreal maple syrup, I casually mentioned that we needed to "stop off" at the strawberry patch on the way to the beach.

"The strawberry patch! There-isn't-a-strawberry-patch-on-the-way-to-the-beach!", Erin roared. "Of coarse there isn't", I said as I served the last pancake, "But I have stories due. I want to take pictures of you and Nicole in the strawberry patch and write about strawberries. Besides, it's your Daddy's birthday and heloves Strawberries."

Erin likes strawberries about as much as she likes cleaning her room but she's always been Daddy's little girl so she was in. As though it were her idea, "I know! I'll pick Daddy a basket of strawberries for his birthday. He'll like that very much!" Yes he will, I agreed.

Knowing she could change her mind in a nanosecond, I went off to find my camera, extra batteries, sunscreen, wide brimmed hats and three bottles of ice-cold water. "Throw your dishes in the sink when you're done. I'll wash them when we come back". I had the car packed and the cabin cooled to a luxurious 70 degrees by the time they'd taken their list bite of pancakes.

At the sound of their dishes crashing into one another as they tossed them into my kitchen sink as though they were made of indestructible plastic and not fine the French porcelain I'd worked my whole life for, I called out to them, "I'm in the car".

Little White (Pineapple) Lies

"How long do we have to stay Auntie Kathy?" Not long, I promised as we buckled up and began our journey. And I meant it. I knew that to have any chance of getting them to come along on future outings (morel hunting, my annual, great wild trillium pursuit etc...) I had to earn their trust. I'll be quick. I used to work on a farm you know. In their most horrified, exaggerated, teenage, grossed out, high pitched voices, "Ewwww, you did???"

"Yes. I did. In Hawaii. After work, I'd drive up to the farm that supplied all the produce for my restaurant and work the fields. I was usually asked to harvest the baby lettuces. It was really quite simple but no one wanted to do it because you had to cut the lettuces, separate them by variety and then wash them in giant bathtubs..."

"Bathtubs, Aunt Kathy? You mean like real bathtubs?"

"Yes. Robbie (my farmer) collected all sorts of old fashioned bathtubs and placed them in the shed or what he called grand central at the farm. It was an open air shed with no walls. It had a giant canvas top that would protect us from the rain but not much else. It's where all the produce was brought to at the end of the day and packaged up for the restaurants. The shed had lots of refrigerators for keeping the produce cool overnight. There were white ones, green ones and even an apricot colored one. Robbie got them from garage sales, junk yards and he even found a couple on the side of the road.

When the produce was washed and ready to be delivered, it was stored it in the refrigerators overnight. This way, it stayed nice and cold and fresh until the drivers arrived to pick it up in the morning to take it to the island chefs".

"What did Robbie do with all those bathtubs?"

"The lettuces had to be washed, dried and packaged separately. I couldn't just throw them all willy-nilly into one big bag when I was harvesting them in the fields. Using a sickle...

"What's a sickle?" Erin asked

It's a very sharp knife used for cutting produce. The blade is half moon shaped making it easier to gather the food as you cut it. It's especially useful for harvesting lettuces. I cut the lettuces one variety at a time and place each kind in their own bag or box. When I couldn't possibly carry anymore, I brought the lot up to the shed and drew them each a bath."

This had the girls in stitches of course. "Did you use Mr. Bubbles, Auntie Kathy?"

"Did you have to clean behind their ears?", Nicole asked.

"No! But I had to keep things very organized. When I came up from the fields I had to work quickly so the lettuces didn't wilt. I poured the leaves into their respective tubs which were filled with ice cold water. I went from bath to bath gently swishing the lettuces around in the water with my hands until all the sand fell to the bottom of the tubs. Next, very gently, so as not to bruise any leaves, I had to scoop the leaves up and out of the water and place them in the base of industrial size salad spinners.

I shook the spinners (which looked a lot like giant colanders) to get as much of the excess water off as possible. Next, I spun the leaves through several cycles in the salad spinners until they were as dry as the machines could get them. Finally, I poured the lettuces out onto double layers of bed sheets which Robbie also collected from heaven knows where..."

"Garage sales, junk yards and the side of the road?" Erin asked

"Well, let's hope he got all the sheets from sanitary sources. They were all very clean", I assured her, "and he had washers and dryers at the farm too. Now,they probably came from garages sales, junk yards, and the side of the road. Robbie was always very resourceful. He hated to part with money".

I put a box fan up to each table of lettuce and turned them on to medium. If I turned them up to high, they'd blow the baby lettuces all over the farm. And there I'd be, running around chasing flying baby lettuce leaves praying Robbie wouldn't come up to the shed and catch me.

The box fans gave the lettuces a final drying they really needed. It was a fairly quick process. As the top layer of lettuces dried, I lifted them off the pile and put them into bags. When the bags weighed five pounds, I marked them for sale and stored them in the refrigerators. They were finally ready for market.

"I can see why nobody wanted lettuce duty Aunt Kathy".

"Me too", Nicole chimed in.

I never considered it work. In fact, I'd give anything to get a shift on the farm today. It was magical. The farm was right across the street from pineapple fields that overlooked the ocean. Green sea turtles swam below sea cliffs where mama grey whales passed by with their young every spring. You don't see that every day! We used to climb the fence, borrow a few fresh pineapple and go sit on the edge of the cliffs and watch the whales.

"Aunt Kathy! You can't borrow pineapple from someone else's field!"

Okay, you're right. Sometimes we'd leave a basket of mangos from Robbie's farm in exchange.

"You're fibbing."

You're right, I sighed. And to think! I used to be able to get this stuff right past them when they were younger.

Are We THERE Yet?

We pulled up to the farm. It was just as I remembered it. Smack in the middle of suburbia, a delicious strawberry field that went on forever. Rows and rows and rows of strawberries racing from one end of the parking lot straight off into the sunset.  There were grandmas and grandpas, moms and dads and kids of all ages, bums high in the air, feverishly picking strawberries as if their lives depended on it. I couldn'twait to get started!

We parked and went up to the official strawberry-husk-ateers. Pick five baskets, get one free, we were told.  Great!, I said. We'll take six baskets.

"Six baskets!", Erin cried. "We'll never be able to go the beach again!"

"How are we going to pick six whole baskets of strawberries?" Nicole asked. "I have to go home tomorrow."

I promise you, Nicole, you'll make your curfew. Clearly these kids didn't have Saturday morning chores. Not only did I have to clean toilets, mow the lawn and rake leaves when I was I kid, but I couldn't watch a single cartoon until my work passed my father's inspections.

And P.S. we certainly didn't get an allowance for doing chores. We got three square meals a day, clean sheets and pillows once a week and we had to put them on ourselves. We didn't get any new toys and we absolutely didn't get any of the cool toys that were advertised on T.V. Just asking for one was asking for trouble.

It's a Strawberry Christmas (in June)

But we did get to go to U Pick Farms with my Mom. And I'll never forget it. I'll never forget any of our outings to U Pick Farms. I don't think anyone ever forgets their first trip to a strawberry field or a raspberry patch. There's nothing like it. My Mom used to let us run wild. She gave us our own baskets and let us go off on our own. The only rule was she had to be able to see us from wherever she was. She didn't care how many berries we ate, just as long as she could see us.

She taught us to ingratiate ourselves to the farmers and to ask them lots of questions about the strawberries. Ask how many varieties have been planted and which ones are sweeter. Ask them if any of the berries are organic or tart or if one variety makes better jam, pie, crisp or ice-cream than another.

"Scan the fields before you choose a spot. Go the opposite of where the crowds are. Look for plants that are in perfect shape. If the leaves are at all wilted or have a look of being walked on, they've probably been gone through". You should be able to see lots and lots of strawberries on the bush when you're standing in front of the plants, especially at the beginning of the season. If you don't, move on.

Pick strawberries in an area where you can harvest lots of strawberries off of each bush so you can crouch down in a row and pick from two plants in front of you, two beside you and two just behind you. By the time you've gone through the six plants, you'll have a lot of strawberries in your basket and you won't have had to travel very far at all.

Choose berries that are firm and free of any soft spots whatsoever. Do not be prejudice against small berries, sometimes they're the very sweetest. Whatever you do, stop picking before it becomes a chore and before you burn out. Strawberry picking with those you love is meant to be an activity you enjoy, a memory you cherish and a custom you pass on.

Comments

[laura]

I can remember going strawberry picking for many years as a kid. And picking blueberries at my grandparents' house until they moved out of their house.

I hated doing so as a kid, but now they're fond memories. Especially when there were fresh pies later that night.

It's also great to know that I wasn't the only one who stuffed myself silly with fresh berries when no one was looking. ;-)

[Sheri]

I have fond memories of going hunting for morels every fall with my Dad. It wasn't about the mushrooms for me, it was about spending time in the woods and spending time with Dad. The earthy smell of him sauteing the morels in butter would drive me out of the house with many dramatic EWWW!s, but I was still anxious to go mushroom hunting every fall. I still hate mushrooms to this day, but my memories of hunting morels with Dad are really dear to me.