|When strawberries go to heaven.|
It is here you realize the stories become precious, that a picture of a strawberry is not just a picture of a strawberry. It is a picture of a strawberry picked over and picked out. A late season, an import.
If there is one reason I would say I hate the deer ate the strawberries it is because I don't get to deliver any to Annie. I will have to buy some from Lisa and Randy and take them to her on a plate she gave Dad with his very own strawberry cake. Dad, all six foot and something of him who chops his own wood, giggled and hugged and well
Shea, I told that girl at that store that I was going to be in that magazine. She had it right there at the register.
You did? It was?
Yep. I told her that I had a cousin who was a writer and a photographer and she had taken pictures of my strawberry cake and she had written a story about it and it was going to be in that magazine.
I think this must be one of those times in life you think this will never be good enough. My capacity to place words in an order to form a life of what all I can't explain eighty-one years of Annie.
What did she say?
She said she'd be looking for it.
Yep. I told her it'd be soon.
February March, Ms. Annie.
Is that when?
Yes. I'll bring you a copy.
Her plate. The magazine. Strawberries from Mathis.
In another week you'll be able to buy it. The story, the recipe. What I want to tell you now is that it is not good enough but one day I had to decide at the very last minute on the end of a line in that moment of time it was the best I had to give.
Plus, give me a break. It's Annie. And a word limit.
Today I am so grateful for the teachers in my life, for how Annie doesn't want to sell you a cake but rather show you how to make it.