When we first moved to Pennsylvania, my mother discovered in the spring the fields were alive with wild strawberries. These strawberries were small but packed with flavor. Although it was time consuming, my mother would go out with a bucket and pick these berries. Sometimes by brother and I would help, but more luscious strawberries would go into our mouths than in our buckets.

Once the berries were picked and washed, they needed to be hulled. My mother had a utensil for this job. It was metal, folded in half, and worked like tweezers. It was wider than your thumb and your thumb fit into an im...

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