Pick your own

I took part in a big Ontario summer tradition today - strawberry picking.

Signs directed us to "pick our own" and I quickly figured out they were not referring to our noses. So as directed, I picked my own - strawberries that is - occasionally also doing a little taste test.

Then, with my container only half full, a strawberry farm intern looked at our group of Canadian slave laborers and announced: "Only 10 minutes left for picking!" This infuriated me, so I quickly increased the ratio of strawberries to mouth v. strawberries to container.

Having lived in Ontario before, I'm no strawberry picking virgin - I knew to ensure I didn't end up looking like I applied red lipstick in the dark. But my parents are far more experienced, being the longtime Ontario residents they are. My mom has been known to bring a small mirror to ensure evidence of strawberry eating is hidden.

And while I regrettably did not get to see this, I have confirmed that my dad once put on knee pads while picking strawberries. It allowed him to pick strawberries kneeling without pain and occasionally roll in between rows of fruit. This reportedly caused great admiration among fellow male pickers and a great deal of embarrassment from my mother.

When my dad heard my mom and I were going strawberry picking today, he knew we wouldn't go for his knee pad advice. But he had another wise tip to offer: Bring a can of whip cream.