Sneaking Strawberries

Spanish conversations floated around me as I stood in the middle of the strawberry field, happily shoving soft, ripe berries into my mouth. Every time my parents looked away I popped another sweet strawberry into my already stained red mouth. When I smiled, my parents looked suspiciously at my stained lips, and teeth covered in small, off white seeds.1

My parents were attempting to pick berries for us to take home and eat, while keeping my brother and I out of trouble in the adventure-filled berry fields. Everyone around us was hard at work, and looked at us oddly. You could tell they were all wondering why we were there, and some were rude, but we'd been out to the fields many summers before, and many of the people had grown use to us.2

Besides the owners, we were the only people who were white out their-though several of the workers thought my dad was Mexican, and kept attempting to speak to him in Spanish, while he looked at them with a puzzled look on his face, and repeatedly stumbled on the phrase, "No hablo espanol." I was jealous of the fast, smooth way they all talked, and their deeply tanned skin. I often attempted my Spanish on the Mexican kids around the field, and rarely succeeded at communicating anything to them, though I earned a few laughs. 3

As my parents were busy picking, I noticed my brother taking great amusement in walking around stepping on the strawberries on the bottom of the vines. He giggled as he brought his large foot down on several strawberries drooping down from the bottom of a vine, smashing them beneath his shoe, and staining the sole a deep red color. The ground was left slimy with strawberry juice, and with leaves and seeds scattered on it.4

When I noticed my brother pick up a rotten berry, and try to put it in his mouth, I knew it was time for us to take a break from the fields. I grabbed his wrist, and marched him over to the water fountain, away from all the rotten berries, definitely acting my role of bossy little sister. 5

On the way to the fountain, we stepped on many over-ripe berries that hadn’t been picked in time. They’d rotted, and fallen unceremoniously to the soft soil they grew from. They smelled of an odd, sour, putrid smell, that fills your nostrils. They were all a deep red color, with purple splotches, much like bruises. The oldest ones were so dark they were almost black, and blended well with the dirt. Their leaves were crinkled and crispy, and a darker green than the leaves of ripe berries.6

At the water fountain, my brother splashed happily, while I sat with a small, round toddler, with a goofy smile on his face. He excitedly slapped the soggy ground below him, looked around, and snatched up the nearest berry. Before I could stop him he took a big bite out of the rotten strawberry. He began to chew, then his face contorted into a disgusted look, and he spit the chunks of slimy, dirty berry on to the ground. He looked at me accusingly, as if I’d made him eat it, and grumpily said, “Yucky.” To appease him, and because it was kind of funny, I ate a nibble of the same berry he had.7

It was slimy, with many small, hard seeds in it. It tasted horrible, like a mix of dirt and prune juice. I spat it out, the same way the toddler had, and made the most disgusted look I could. The toddler began giggling uncontrollably. My brother came over to see what was so funny, and looked disappointed to find nothing entertaining. He went back to splashing around in the fountains, but looked rather bored of the water now.8

I decided all three of us could use a strawberry snack. I looked around me to make sure my parents and no other adults were around. When I saw the coast was clear, I checked and saw my brother was still content with playing in the water, and I briskly walked over into the main part of the field, and lost myself in the tall rows of strawberry vines. The row I was in was completely void of people, so I grabbed several ripe, plump strawberries off the vine, rubbed them gently with my fingers, scraping any excess dirt off them, and stuffed them into the front pocket of my shirt.9

I walked back to the fountain area, and handed a large, shiny, red strawberry to the little boy. He grabbed it happily, and took a big bite of it. My brother saw him, and came over, grabbed several strawberries from me, and began munching. I took the last strawberry out of my pocket, and bit into it. The juices spilled into my mouth, a waterfall of sweet strawberry juice tantalizing my taste buds. I took another bite, my teeth piercing through the slightly thicker, less soft outer layer covered in seeds, and gliding into the tender inside where the best part of the fruit lays. I ate the last bit, and threw the leaf onto the ground. I grabbed the toddler, and carried him over to the water fountain, where I helped him washed his red-stained hands, while my brother and I did the same. By the time the adults came over, we were free of the incriminating  evidence.10