Every Sunday morning, I go grocery shopping at Central Market. Early. It’s really a pleasant experience, fondling the produce, when there aren’t a lot of people around. For the past few weeks, the strawberries (in bulk) have been especially pretty. And for the past few weeks, as I’ve hand-picked a dozen or so, this keeps running through my mind: the darker the berry, the sweeter the juice, the darker the berry, the sweeter the juice. I’m not kidding. And it’s not something I’m thinking in a funny way. It is literally what I use to pick the best strawberries. It works, so what the hell. At least I’ve moved beyond giggling when picking out cucumbers. That only stopped recently.
My folks had a big family gathering yesterday. I was talking to Tohner when I noticed a couple of oranges in the kitchen that had…nipple-like protrusions. They made me laugh, and I (once again) felt kind of embarrassed (and kind of liberated) that I sometimes have the sense of humor of a 12-year-old boy. Then, not ten minutes later, Dad walked by and said something about the oranges, too. Then Mason pointed out that they were directly under the air vent in the ceiling so maybe they were cold. Mom wondered aloud what is wrong with all of us. I’m glad that I have a family like I do. We egg each other on and keep each other in check fairly well.