A hot drive along narrow dusty tracks. Collect cardboard baskets from the gloomy barn. The best strawberries are in the distant corner of the field, where lazy folk don't go.
Sunny afternoons picking strawberries. Shorts and t-shirt stained with red juice and dust.
The drive back to town, windows open to catch the breeze, singing along to the radio.
Jam was a mistake, too many hours of boiling. Search through the recipe books for something else.
Another hot day, and another visit to the farm.
Cream, strawberries and sugar. Mix and freeze slightly. Mix again and freeze.
After all the years and miles, I still remember the taste.