Sunday Scribblings #94 – Strawberry – Buffalo Sauce Everywhere

Happy Sunday, everyone!

Every Wednesday, blogging buddy Aaron over at The Confusing Middle posts a “Sunday Scribblings” prompt for other bloggers to ponder and respond to on the following Sunday. If you’re a blogger looking for more inspiration, I highly recommend jumping in and joining in on the fun!

This week’s prompt is: Strawberry!

When I read this prompt, half a dozen thoughts sprang to my mind like strawberry picking with my dad in the summer, making strawberry smoothies, and enjoying crepes with matcha cream and strawberries and chocolate truffles topped with whipped cream…

Ahem. I got distracted for a second there, where was I?

While I could go on and on about the different strawberry-themed stories (and foods!) swirling around in my head, I’ll go ahead and pick two.

In February of my 8th grade year, my mom and I went to stay with my uncles in Orlando. We took a girl’s trip, just the two of us, went to the theme parks down there, hung out by the pool, and spent some quality time with my uncles and their cats.

One of our first days there, my Uncle Ronnie gave us some of his homemade strawberry shortcake and I was immediately hooked. It was the first time I had ever had strawberry shortcake. It was just some strawberries, cool whip, and bisquick biscuits, but it was so good!

I distinctly remember one night were we came home late from one of the theme parks and my Uncle Ronnie, always the gracious host, offered my mom and me something to eat. We both thanked him as we walked out of the kitchen and said no, we were fine. Then my uncle said the words he knew would change my mind…

“How about some strawberry shortcake?”

I literally turned on my heel and spun around to face him. I mean, if he was offering that delicious delicacy, there was no way I wasn’t partaking. This is the origin story of how I fell in love with strawberry shortcake. And I do not think that I have had it since.

My second story is such a strange short story that it could only possibly fall under the “quintessentially Renata” umbrella.

There is a small farm stand up the street from my house (this is where my dad and I would pick strawberries in the summer). As many people in the US know, New Jersey is considered “the garden state,” and for good reason. My mom actually grew up on a farm in southern New Jersey. My dad, only a few miles away, helped harvest mushrooms on the farm that belonged to his family.

The farmer’s market near us is only open during summer and early fall when all of the fruits and veggies local to NJ are ripe for the picking. One day while sitting poolside, Dad and I decided to run to the farmer’s market to get a quart of fresh strawberries to munch on. The deal was that dad would drive and pay if I was the one to get out of the car, pick out the pre-picked strawberries, and make the purchase. Of course, my social anxiety kicked in as soon as I agreed, but I had to uphold my end of the bargain.

I got out of the car and started looking at all of the quarts of fresh strawberries on the counter. Not wanting to touch the berries themselves, I tried to inspect the berries as well as I could just by touching the quart containers. The flimsy, made-of-thin-cardboard quart containers.

I’d imagine you can tell what happened next. One of the quart containers completely broke in my hand as I was handling it, sending strawberries flying everywhere. Dad, of course, watched the entire scene unfold from the car.

“Darn it!” I said while holding my hands balled into fists. I made a motion that dad described later as “like a cartoon character.” Imagine seeing this, but from behind: