The first time I saw someone eat a plate of pink prime rib with its quivering fat and bloody puddles, I nearly fainted. My dad was one of those guys who could only eat meat that was burned. I mean, incinerated. He fried his bacon in butter until it was black. He fried his meatballs in butter until they were black. His steak? The same. I grew up thinking that well done was the only way to cook meat. As a result, I hated beef and stuck to seafood, fish, and the occasional pork chop. When I was confronted with a plate of charred beef, I added a pool of my favorite steak sauce, A1.

As I dream of real summer weather, one of the things I look forward to most is picking strawberries with my little cousins at a pick-your-own farm near our family cabin up in Aitkin County. The first time we tried it, the kids were so excited we had to go back two times in one day and filled five ice cream gallon buckets with ruby red fruit, sweet and sun-warmed as we relished in harvesting that evening’s dessert.