Singing away in the shower— somewheeere over the raaainbow— with dirt under my nails. Had to shampoo twice to get all the grime out, scrub with a little more vigor than usual. Why is that as satisfying as it is?

It’s starting to get hot and I’m impatient for the strawberries to come in. Over lunch yesterday, “When are the real ones in?” Dad: “The real ones?” with laughter. Yes. These hothouse berries look enough of the part, so we all aid their cause, pretending not to notice.

This time last year? Let’s say it was the only year I missed the strawberries.