#2 Her Favorite Food are Red, Blood-red . . .

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.

In our Easter outfits, check out those gloves and my groovy handbag! 

In our Easter outfits, check out those gloves and my groovy handbag! 

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.  

Who will notice a missing bite or two. . . Pass the whipped cream, quick!

Who will notice a missing bite or two. . . Pass the whipped cream, quick!

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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