|O, glorious, dimpled fruit, mmm.|
Strawberry Shortcake was created because "market surveys showed that little girls connected emotionally with strawberries and felt 'security and affection' in relation to them" (Thomas, 58). I read this in a wonderfully scary book, Buy, Buy, Baby: How Consumer Culture Manipulates Parents and Harms Young Minds. Despite the darker marketing origins of the little redhead Strawberry Shortcake, I can totally relate! Strawberries do mean security and affection! Why, when I was a little girl, when people would make fun of my fuzzy hair, I'd come home from school and just sit in our strawberry patch, spilling all my woes to the little sproingy green plants and their red, heart-shaped treasures. They would listen, and when I was done crying my salty, soil-contaminating tears, those little strawberries would offer words of comfort and thoughtful suggestions. And then I would eat a couple of them.
|Ah, a royalty check from the pernicious marketers. How wonderful!|
Today, while preparing some strawberries for my bowl of Honey Bunch of Oats with Almonds (best cereal ever!), I felt like a real adult--a rare feeling. I was cutting the strawberries that awesome, dangerous-seeming way where you pinch berry and blade together with your slightly crooked index finger and thumb. There's that moment when you've cut through the last bit of berry and the edge of the blade presses just barely into the flesh of your thumb--it amazes me every time that I don't cut my thumb off. I remember watching my parents cut fruit this way when I was little and I was so in awe. They are so brave, I thought. I would imitate them with butter knives and bananas, but you don't get the same thrill when there's no risk of laceration. But there I was this morning, standing at the kitchen counter slicing a strawberry onto my cereal with smooth, deft motions. And I thought, I have motor skills! I am brave! I am a grown-up! It was wonderful.
Brianna's Poppyseed dressing
Combine, and be translated.