Is there a sexier, more luscious and sensual fruit in all of God’s kingdom than the strawberry? The fig, maybe, but its rather drab exterior color lacks the verve and pizzazz and “Please have me, it’s spring and I want you to be happy and fulfilled” invitation of the so very, very red strawberry.
Red is a power color, a “Here I am and do I feel alive!” statement to the cosmos and anyone within it who happens to be looking at you, and your dress or shirt, and that basket (or flat!) of strawberries you’re waltzing away with from the farmer’s market on a sparkly spring Saturday.
I like my strawberries straight, with a chaser of a few more to follow, but let’s face it, there is just no bad way to have a strawberry. In a shake or on a cheesecake, on ice cream or pancakes or plopped in a champagne flute. Mashed right into a muffin; just let me have it, baby. Now!
Yes, strawberries tell us not to dally with lif...
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