Entries for the Construct Cup Version 2.0!!! |
Theme: How to... Words to use: (None) Words to avoid: cook, build, write, stories, poems. Additional Parameters: Min. 16 lines Doing the Strawberry Jam Take yourself for a wander to pick-your-own fields with an old floppy hat to ward off the sun, and bring along a grandchild or two. Sun-kissed smiles, red hands and stained knees later, rub your aching back as you haul ten quarts to the wagon, hoist up the grand-kid who's too small to climb in herself and enjoy singing your way back to the barn. It'll be a hull of a few hours after you get home; so many berries and little mouths still begging for another one, please. Bowls full, blenders fuller. Sweetened with giggles, several pounds of sugar, the pectin and tiny finger lickings. Pour into jars and jars and still, more jars. The grand-kids get the important job: putting on all the lids. Put twenty-eight various sized jars into the freezer. Choruses of "How much longer, Grampa?" after only fifteen minutes. He sidetracks them to wash very red strawberry-grins, impossibly pink hands before noticing their clothes. Shaking head ruefully, giving up and heading outside: the three of themĀ looking for all the world like circus clowns on a sweetness high. He hoses the grand-kids down, lets 'em drip and run-spin-dry in the sun. Having no taste for strawberries, myself, I clean up the bowls, spoons and dishes, as Grampa crawls into the hammock with the two little ones. Gentle swinging soothes and all three are asleep under the boughs of the giant maple tree. I smile, watching them. Magical afternoon. I throw my new dishtowels into the wash: scarlet handwipe flowers staining white-- three distinct sizes of handprints. I beat off the ants stampeding sugar scattered on the floor, then go take a picture of my sleeping crew sprawled in the hammock, snuggled in a heap, covered in maple leaf shadows. No strawberry was ever so sweet. Fyn ** Image ID #1910877 Unavailable ** |