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June in Ithaca.  For the past week or so, all I have been able to think about is strawberries.  I wasn’t even sure if it was strawberry season, but I couldn’t stop thinking about them.  And sure enough, this week at the farmers’ market there were the first little baskets piled high with them.  I bought some and most of them were tiny, and they were all different shapes.  I ate all of them, plain, in one sitting.

There was also a strawberry festival about a half an hour away yesterday, and John obligingly took me to it.  I sort of imagined that the festival would involve booths and tables replete with the freshest red strawberries, and happy people just eating strawberries out of the little turquoise baskets or maybe eating some very fresh food made with the strawberries, and red sticky strawberry juice dripping down everyone’s fingers to their elbows.

It turned out to be more like a regular festival with people selling crafts and knives and plastic toys and kettle corn and shaved ice, and by the time we got there in the late afternoon, there was only one booth selling strawberries.  But we sure bought some, and they were delicious.  By the time we reached home they had reached the point of no return and so I quickly popped them into the freezer, where their perfect state of ripeness will be more or less preserved until I can make some ice cream out of them and the heaviest and freshest cream I can find.

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