they're poison...from Mexico

I love fresh strawberries. If I posted my diet logs, you would see them in alarming quantities in my daily menu, especially when they're in season (and therefore cheap). Strawberries with breakfast, strawberries for dessert, strawberries as a snack, waffles and strawberries, eggs with sausage and strawberries, strawberries and bananas, strawberries with strawberry topping, etc.

So you can imagine how happy I was when, during my last stroll through the produce section of my local grocery store, strawberries were on sale for 97 cents a lb. I bought 4 lbs. In the two days since, I've gone through nearly two of them, mostly a cup at a time, washed and cut in half. It's been all strawberries, all the time around here.

So, I'm sitting here eating my 6th or 7th cup of strawberries in 48 hours, and I remembered a story. It's not my story, so I might get it totally wrong. I'm definitely taking creative license with it, anyway. It's maybe one of those "had to be there" things, too. If you still want to read it, click OPEN WIDE.

In February, we took a weekend trip to visit my family in small-town Wisconsin. As you may remember from previous posts on the subject, these trips are usually stuffed so full of dinner invitations and Midwestern hospitality that we practically have to roll ourselves back onto the plane at the end of them.

One of the chief providers of said hospitality is my dad's girlfriend. Most trips we end up at their house about 60-70% of the time, and there is always food. She loves to cook, and she does it well. I'm pretty sure Rob has a little bit of a crush on her.

So anyway, one night we were scheduled to eat dinner out at their house, and we got there a little early. Erin wasn't there yet, since she had run to the Walmart to get some last minute stuff. We talked with Dad for a while, and then she came home. We helped her unpack the bags, including strawberries for the fruit salad (You knew they were going to factor somewhere in this story, right?)

So, we were just talking about the hazards of going to Walmart and how Walmart seems to attract all the trailer-park/freakshow customers (I'm paraphrasing). And that's when Erin told the strawberry story.

Apparently, she had been standing in the produce section looking at the strawberries when a woman came up behind her.

"Oh, I love strawberries." This total stranger then got a wistful look on her face, "But these are poison."

Erin's curiosity was piqued. "Why are they poison?"

"Well..." The lady leaned in, looked around, and broke out the conspiratorial whisper, "they're from Mexico."

Erin, now realizing she's dealing with a total nutcase, whispered back, "How do you know they're from Mexico?"

The lady pointed to the word "Fraises" on the label, and whispered triumphantly, "See...Spanish."

Hell, what more proof do you need, right? I mean, except maybe actual Spanish.

Erin considered for a second, nodded knowingly, then put a box of strawberries in her cart. "I'll take my chances."

Then she backed her cart away politely and made her escape.

I'm happy to say that we ate our Mexican death strawberries without any ill effects. But now every time I buy strawberries I can't help but whisper "...from Mexico" under my breath.