My light colored denim overalls barely fit around my enormous, swollen belly, and my feet already felt tight, Old Navy flip-flop straps digging into my swollen flesh, pinky toes happily standing at attention.
I was pregnant with Max, and Sammy, Tyler and I were strawberry picking in Hubert, NC. The sun was right above us on that warm, May day in 2001, and we were sweating.
We had tiny little plastic buckets with Rigg’s Farm logos on them, and we were allowed to fill them with strawberries for five bucks each, and we each had two. It was a splurge.
Before we left we bought strawberry milkshakes and road home with the the air conditioning in our red van blasting on our newly pinked faces.
It was the first time I made strawberry jam so I didn’t realize how much work it was, but I felt high when I was done. “You should sell them,” people have said, but there’s something about giving a jar of jam to someone, it’s like you think of everyone you know while you make it.
I’ve been so busy lately that I said I wanted to use the time I had today, on Mother’s Day to make jam with the strawberries Baylee and I got in Wallace yesterday. Prices have changed, and so has my home and life in general, but the process doesn’t. My hands knew what to do.
As always, I cooked up some biscuits and lathered one with room temperature butter. Then, I put a hefty spoonful of hot, strawberry jam on it. You have to eat it with a spoon because it’s messy. I took a bite and closed my eyes. I tasted North Carolina spring, life in base housing, and 2001.