The first time I had strawberry shortcake was in elementary school, when I helped with our church’s annual Strawberry Festival. It was part of a larger town-wide celebration of spring in upstate New York, when we emerged from our homes after the snow melted to blooming lilacs and roses almost fragrant enough to make us forget that we had ever had a winter.
Every June, I was part of the crew of volunteers recruited to set up what felt like hundreds of folding tables and chairs under a big yellow tent in the church yard. In exchange, I was promised a free strawberry shortcake with extra whipped cream: more than a fair deal for a nine-year-old.
