Strawberries have always been prominent in my life. I know this as I browse through baby pictures and see my face ten years younger covered in the remains of one. I remember trips to Tampa and every time they were in season my family would take me to the strawberry fields to pick baskets of them. Memories of helping my grandmother slice tens upon tens of the fruit for desserts like strawberry shortcake or strawberry pie invade my mind. I can remember childish surprise as my mother brought out plates of crepes with piles of strawberries and a can of sweetened condensed milk. Secret trips to the kitchen to dip strawberries in Nutella flood my memory. Flashes of a chocolate fountain and strawberries and a sugar rush come to me but I was too hyper that day to remember much. Today, nobody takes me to strawberry fields or makes strawberry shortcakes or pies or brings me homemade crepes to stuff with strawberries. Still, I hold the red fruit close to my heart. I buy strawberry scented hand sanitizers, dollop the prettiest ones on top of the cakes I make now, and eat them by the bowlful.