Rosemary’s had strawberries several times before. She was smashing them into her high chair last year in England. Last summer, I gave her one in the car on the way home from the produce market…I thought she’d eaten it, but later I found it 99.9% whole, partially moldy, underneath the cover.

She’s never enjoyed strawberries. A taste, a face, and she spit them out. 

But these…we grew ourselves on the patio. And I guess there’s something to be said for that. Yesterday, she picked the ripe ones. A little shocked when they departed from their stems. Giggled as we washed them in the hose. She ate them bite by bite, almost in a trance. 

Strawberries the size of her fist.