Early morning sun twinkled through my Holly Hobby curtains. Its warmth snickered me out of my bed and onto better things. With nightgown and barefeet, I would tenderly and ever-cautiously deal with the creek-whining of the backporch screen door maneuvering its old age long enough to find my feet on the handcut patio stones. It was time.
Sneaky and anxious, nightgown hoisted just above my knees to avoid the morning dew, my barefeet barreled to the end of my house just outside the garden gate as well as my bedroom window.
It was time.
My nightgown as a simple maskeshift basket, I picked.
As fast as those ripe red rubies could find my lips, I was blissfully consumed.
Tossing remaining leaf bundles this way and that, down the rows I would go.
Dirt smushing between my toes like cake batter to my moist feet, I troddled along determined to not leave one, not one, behind.
With belly full, enough in my basket for the makings of sweet milk in my cereal, and the most crimson smeared lips and cheeks of Estill Springs, I made my way back inside.
Muddy footprints. Grass blades sparkling. I was ready for my day to begin.
It is time.
I love strawberries to say the least. And May is prime time in Tennessee for strawberry pickin'.
Above is a Strawberry Pretzel Salad I made last week. The recipe is very simple and utterly divine. Kenny has now named this his most favorite dessert I make. The man eats it out of the pan with his fork in clear concise, clean rows.
And the rest of the strawberries were gobbled up by one sweet Casey face and his mama. That boy and I sat on the back porch with basket in hand and did what I loved to do best when I was a little girl.
Muddy footprints. Grass blades sparkling. I am ready for my day to begin.