Confessions of a Not-So Baby Vampire #2
Having lived all my 8 years near the strawberry fields of California--"The Fruit Bowl" "Salad Bowl" or "Paradise" Nanny called it, depending on the season--moving to Pennsylvania, arriving Christmas Eve, in a blizzard, was . . . an adjustment. My mom says my brother and I "cried because we couldn't go outside." (I think she's being a bit dramatic...) The sentiment was true enough. I especially missed the abondanza of fruit: red delicious (although mealy) apples, plump red plums, juicy red raspberries, and most of all, heaping crates of field-sweet strawberries so ripe the juices ran blood-red down my arm when I bit one.
So that first Easter in Pennsylvania, when mom surprised us with a fresh strawberry pie, well, who could blame me?
After double-checking no one was near, I plucked a big red strawberry dripping with glaze from the back of the pie and ate it.
Blood-red desire for more drove me to do something I knew I shouldn't.
I sneaked back into the fridge, plucked another strawberry out of the pie. Held it poised over my mouth and bit off the bottom. Then I tucked it back into the pie, stem side up. The glaze settled in nicely around it. None would have been the wiser if I'd stopped at one. But I didn't. Couldn't. Again and again I sneaked back for more.
By the time it was served, the pie had shrunk in size by half. I held my breath and hoped no one would notice. And they didn't seem to, not until my mom served up the first slice and several bottomless strawberries tumbled out.
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