Now that I've lived in this house for three years, and maybe now that I'm um, into my forties, ahem, I can feel the cyclical nature of things. Things like pre-menstrualness, holiday shoppingness, and seasonal fare.
Those raspberries? From the back yard. Just like they were last year and the year before.
Even though I've come to expect it, I don't take it for granted, not yet anyway. It still thrills me—plucking, rinsing, devouring, repeating.
Maybe one day the kids will actually try them. Yes, I have berry-fearful kids. Those scary seeds! Not even the fingertip hat trick can inspire Hamish or Stella to take a bite. And Stella eats onion grass. Raw collards. Pickles. Kale flakes. I don't get it. Oh wait I do. I never ate berries as a kid either. I much preferred the Lik-A-Stik berry-flavored powder.
Every day I offer, and every day they bellow, "Of course not, Mom!" with all the indignation they can muster in their twelve combined years.
Until they come to their senses, more for me.
In your face, kids.