Strawberries that in gardens grow

On Thursday we went to a nearby farm where we picked our own strawberries. The kids thought it was tremendous fun and we ended up with ten pounds of strawberries. That's a whole lotta strawberries, even for my kids who eat approximately their weight in fruit every week. They tasted the very best on Thursday, when they were still warm from the ground, and before they had to be put in the refrigerator. We had strawberries with each and every meal until yesterday, when Harper finally decided maybe she would have a banana instead. She and Hudson ate a great many strawberries while they were picking and I let them, because it wasn't specifically forbidden on the sign of rules. I lay awake that night, though, wondering if I shouldn't have let them, or if I should have paid a little extra when they weighed our buckets. The title of the post is from a Robert Burns poem in which he extols the flavor of wild strawberries above those which are cultivated. Apply the metaphor as you wish. I personally liked the strawberries all bug-free and weed-free and lined up in tidy rows, thank you very much. I took the above picture when we got home and I retrieved my memory card from my computer, where it was when I turned my camera on at the strawberry patch to take scores of adorable strawberry picking pictures. Mrs. Rives sent me some that she took, but I have no idea how to put them here. Because I am sad, sad embarrassingly bad at basic computer skilz.

I saw a delivery van with this emblazoned on it last week:
AL'S FORMAL WEAR FRESH HOT TUXEDO DELIVERY (the 'fresh' and 'hot' were in a blazy looking font that I simply cannot replicate)
and I think, that while I would definitely like it if my tuxedo was fresh, I'm not sure I want it to be hot. Maybe they should spell it 'phresh'? Anyway it got me thinking about how rented clothes are weird. We got married outside, under a gazebo at the Dallas Arboretum. Our parents and siblings came. The husband bought a new suit. He still wears it sometimes and I still like it. I bought three white linen dresses; one from J. Crew, one from Ann Taylor, and one from BCBG. I ended up taking back the J. Crew, wearing the Ann Taylor to our tiny ceremony, and then wearing the tiered BCBG when the husband and I went out to dinner by ourselves later that night. I have both dresses stuffed in the back of my closet and they are starting to yellow. Six years is a long time for white linen. The whole tuxedo thing also reminded me that when I was little my parents used to go to this charity ball every year, and every year my dad would grumble grumble grumble about The Monkey Suit. It had an elaborately ruffled shirt, because it was the '70's, and I think at some point the tuxedo place went out of business and he bought one. It is probably in the back of his closet now. Maybe Hudson can wear it to prom.

This morning Hudson stubbed his small toe. In the midst of tears and a hug from me he said, "I hurt my peen-tee toe! Lil' puppy will take care of it," which I thought was sweet. (they call Sasha by her name sometimes and sometimes she is 'lil puppy') Then Harper, in her infinite compassion, chimed in with this, "She is NOT going to take care of it--she is going to NIP IT OFF!"