Strawberry Picking

Froberg’s Farm is a farm and market in Alvin, fantastic not only because it’s an actual farm where they grow and sell produce, but also because it’s not a trendy, hip market where you have to gather your prettiest muslin bags before you can even show up to shop. It’s where old men in Alvin go to buy their carrots. And they make homemade hand pies.

You can pick your own berries when they’re in season and last Thursday we ventured out with our neighbor/friend for our own berry picking experience. Judged by my current standards of calling an outing a success if we all end up alive at home at the end of it -regardless of any meltdowns or minor injuries along the way- the trip was exceptional . Rush picked some berries, ate quite a few right off the vine, and ran up and down the rows, while Tate slept soundly in my sling through the whole picking experience. As fun as it was for thirty minutes, it made me really appreciate living in a country and time period where I’m not out in the fields with a baby strapped to me all day, every day.

We hung around after our migrant worker experience for a picnic lunch. The additional highlight was the train track right in front of the farm, so close and loud and excitingly frightening that Rush grabbed my hand each time a train passed by. Watching the train I realized that there are certain words that are only used by children or when talking to children, caboose for example. When was the last time you said that? When I pointed out the last car on the train to Rush and told him it was the caboose, I was immediately like “who say caboose anymore?” I guess people who talk to two year olds. Other than that, it really doesn’t come up in conversation.

We finished our bucket of strawberries in about three days, so we’re planning on at least one more strawberry picking trip, next time when Trent can join us.