I just ate more strawberry shortcake than any reasonable human being should eat.
This morning, the new roomie John and I went to the Alameda farmer's market, and I made a series of injudicious purchases, starting with a large melon (fortunately, John likes melon, and he eats a lot, too).
I also bought an overflowing pint of strawberries, and six large pieces of shortcake (I only wanted two, but they came in packets of six). Which meant that on the way home I had to stop and get some cream, and dinner tonight was strawberry shortcake. This was a tradition when I was a kid, and I was recently re-reading a letter from my mom mentioning it, so I felt justified.
On the other hand, there's no justification for piling the plate as high as it could go with berries. Or for my wolfing the whole thing down, although it did taste pretty damned nice. The bought shortcake was not as good as my mom's, but it was creamy and tasty (I could have done without the sugar crust, as I was taking in plenty with the berries, but them's the breaks with storebought baked goods). And because nobody else was around, I was able to make the whipped cream like I prefer it: with only a tiny amount of sugar, so it's more buttery than sweet.
Now I am too full to return to my evening's task: taping and mudding the Front Parlour.
