Ripe for the picking

Oh.My.God. I don't feel so good. I'm as round and as red as a strawberry and if you poke me I will explode.

Little sis and I took advantage of the last few days of warmth before autumn really arrives, and hauled the Wondertwins and Baby Scarlett off to a strawberry farm for something other than the usual nose picking in the town of Main Ridge about 40 minutes from where I live. 

Some of our bounty

We have never been strawberry picking, so I wasn't sure what to expect, and stepping into the unknown with Lily and Grace can be terrifying to say the least. It crossed my mind that they might pull out entire strawberry plants, eat more than they pack into their plastic containers (try telling a 3 year old she can't eat her favourite fruit in the whole world as she picks it), be bitten by a snake or a rabbit more feral than they are, vomit all the strawberries they have gorged on during the picking frenzy all over the cafe floor, or just have one of their loud, spontaneous, unpredictable meltdowns over who the fuck knows what this time.

The drive to Main Ridge should have been simple enough. I looked at the map at home. Map? Who needs a map? Apparently we did. I was guided there by the little British man who lives in the GPS on my phone. 

"Turn right at the third exit at the roundabout. Continue for three kilometres." 

It is easy to lose yourself in his melted chocolate voice. All was going well until he announced in his suave British accent, "GPS signal lost." Very polite and strangely calming, however at this point we had no idea whether we were close to the strawberry farm or heading towards Sydney. Either way, because of his relaxing voice we merrily continue down the lonely country road in a false sense of contentment.

If it were an Aussie GPS, we'd know exactly where we stood.

"Hang a lefty at the next roundabout comin' up. Keep cruisin' for about three k's."

"Ya missed the turnoff. Now you're fucked."

"Go back ya dickhead. You're heading up Shit Creek."

"Did I say 40 minutes? I meant 60...maybe 70 minutes, tops."

"For fuck's sake. The GPS has shit itself again. Lost the bastard."

"Here y'are. Stop ya whingin'. Got ya here didn't I? Fuck."

Yes. We got there eventually. Thank you efficient satellite signal.    

Picking strawberries is a brilliant activity for three year olds. It would take them about 15 to 20 minutes to fill their tubs with deliciously ripe strawberries, the perfect amount of time to cater to their short attention spans. No time for ripping up plants, snake bites, feral bunnies or big strawberry vomit. Not yet.

 

Back to the cafe for some indulgence. So glad I'm watching what I eat. But my sister assures me that eating healthy strawberries dipped in chocolate equals negative calories. So I had a vanilla bean panna cotta with fresh strawberries and raspberries with chocolate dipping sauce and cream. And, she said, the same rule applies for calories as cheating on your partner - it's ok if you're in another postcode. She is my sister and she is smart, so I have to take her word for that.

Mini Knickerbocker Sundaes & Strawberry
and Marshmellow Kebabs with chocolate sauce.
Amazeballs!!

Scarlett looks as though she was dipped
in spaghetti & choc coated strawberries.
Strawberries dipped in chocolate sauce is baby crack. 

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