July 27, 2013

Strawberry farm babbles

What is happening in the world? Ugh I suck at blogging, I know. My brain juices are drained and I live at airports now, trying not to get queasy in the terminal and actively avoiding anything royal baby-esque that tries to bury itself into my head.


We have strawberry farms back home in Austria. Yes, I know they're here as well but I can guarantee you ours are a million times better. Fuck the word "farm" too, we call it "Strawberry Land" and it raises about as much excitement in young and old and people in general as the word "Disneyland" because a trip there usually involves your mum and your best friend's mum and your best friend and yourself in your orange colored bike shorts and "Jungle book" - t-shirt and jelly sandals, eating unpaid strawberries and throwing half eaten strawberries at each other and frolicking and slipping on rotten strawberries on the ground, staining your orange bike shorts red and then vomiting that exact color later on when your body just had enough of that sweet sweet princess of a berry, which really doesn't hold you back from picking another one...and another one. Mum and best friend's mum rock up with about 10 Tupperware containers each and start picking berries like it was the most prestigious of all housewife contests. If you're picking, your butt has to be the highest part of your body, they say. And in this very moment, no sarcasm involved, I swear, I am so grateful for growing up on the country side, without supermarkets and traffic and bus stops and no internet until I was 15 because you ain't gonna learn that shit on the streets.

At the end of the afternoon mum and best friend's mum would have their Tupperware containers full of the juiciest and reddest berries and get them weighed at the little wooden hut they call the "checkout". Whoever picked the most wins a non-existent price in a non-existent contest.
You pay a ridiculously cheap price (something like $ 25 for 5 kgs) and load up the precious goods in your car, then drive home, eat some more strawberries, watch mum and Nana make jam and cakes and compote and then fall asleep in your little warm bed, oblivious to the fact that this was one of the most amazing and memorable afternoons in your childhood.

Strawberry farmer is a profession. An ACTUAL PROFESSION. It must be the most romanticized profession aside from Shepperd in the European Alps that has ever existed in this crazy lady's head and I want to know how to become one. NOW.

(images via google)