Strawberry Hunter Prime

Last Saturday, despite the overcast conditions, my family and I decided to trek out to the barren wastelands of Long Island to an organic strawberry farm. Yea, I'm calling you out, LI. You used to be a farming community, full of fresh produce and vineyards. Now all you produce is strip malls, pre-fab suburban communities with identical houses and these guys. But I digress.

I have an unusual allergy to strawberries, in that I can't eat them fresh without getting hives. Or I assume I still have it, as I was told about it when I was 4, and decided trying to disprove the theory while not inside a hospital was a bad idea. Towards this end, my mom forced me to wear plastic gloves that were 3 sizes too small to pick the berries. My mom quickly ran through the whole patch, declaring there were no strawberries anywhere except where she stood, and she may have knocked over a tiny child for picking berries in her area. My dad just took photos while my sister picked strawberries with decent acumen. I, never having seen a fresh strawberry before, was a little perplexed, but quickly learned how to hunt these clever creatures. Everyone had their quart buckets overflowing for hours as I quietly and deftly moved among the foliage, stalking only the most prime and delicious specimens for my bucket. I conscripted my sister as my assistant/co-host of my self-produced imaginary tv show, "The Strawberry Hunter." There can only be one.