“Strawberries. Strawberries. Strawberries,” she muttered pulling herself up into yoga posture and not hunched over the computer keys. “A fairy tale with strawberries. And whipped cream, of course.”
Writer’s (chopping) block. She preferred raspberries, so maybe that was the reason. Or maybe because she’d cleaned her laptop, she had taken the magic away. No automatic writing. No muse tapping out a story. Just the glow of the computer screen illuminating her frowning face.
“Come on, come on,” she said inside her head. “A fairy tale with strawberries.” But only visions of Strawberry Shortcake dolls danced in her head.
Forêt was a wild child of the forest. Happiest when she was gathering wild edibles. Talking to the trees. Singing with the birds. Dancing with the seed parachutes and fall leaves. Curtsying to the lady-slippers, jewel weed, and primroses. Singing songs about dragons, fairies, unicorns, and elves.
Filtered light fell to the forest floor. She scooped it up, illuminating her face. The freckles smattered across her nose, the smudge of dirt on her right cheek, a twig or two caught in her unco-operative brown wavy hair.
To Forêt , time stopped in the forest. There were no minutes or hours. No morning or afternoon. It always was the perfect now. However, as the rest of the world operated by the sun and the clock, she found herself always late for something.
something, something, magic strawberries, something, something, strawberry shortcake, strawberry shortcake, strawberry . . . . . . .
Now she had visions of strawberry shortcake with whipped cream AND ice cream. “It’s a fairy tale that I’ll be able to resist,” she thought, going through her cupboards before making her shopping list:
strawberries whipping cream flour butter milk ice cream
baking powder brown sugar
Actually, Forêt, who knew the forest so well, slipped on the wet ground running from a storm. As she fell forward her head hit the side of a tree, and she slumped down against the trunk.
Lost her bearings, and found a magic meadow full of flowers and the sweetest, juiciest strawberries.
To find her way back, tied pieces ripped from her apron. Knowing fairy tales, she assumed the markers would be gone. To her surprise, led straight to the magic strawberries. Magic?, you ask. “Of course,” she would answer. “Make strawberry shortcake, and it tastes different to each person: strawberries and dreams; strawberries and hope; strawberries and sunshine; strawberries and autumn colours. That’s a taste of eating magical strawberry shortcake. . . .”
“I wonder if Whole Foods sells magic organic strawberries,” she mused wheeling her cart out the door.**
** I am not a spokesperson for Whole Foods!