Strawberries are quite the undertaking in this household.
First, you get someone to wake you up at the crack of dawn. (Since that will obviously not happen without help.) Neglecting to brushing your hair, you get into grubbies and then into the car. And then to the field.
After you've picked, and done battle with tall grass, straw between the rows, and other strawberry pickers (not really), you get the car stuck in a huge mudhole located along the edge of the field.
Then, your sister-in-law has a resourceful idea involving branches and pushing, which is born out of the desire to
a) proove herself
b) avoid the embarassment of fetching help
c) getting the rest of us splattered in mud
d) all of the above
The answer is d.
Next, you pay for the berries - a complicated process of calculations. And because of the mud, you write your cheque in barefeet, and (as it happens) directly beside the premier of your province, who is also berry-picking this fine morning.
Simple so far. But the next part is the best. You get home, hull and wash, and then...make jam.
All three jars of it.
Ahh. Sweet, sweet success.