Growing up, it simply wasn't summer if I didn't taste Grandma's strawberry shortcake. She'd rise early in the morning, cut and sugar the berries and set them to marinate on the sun porch. She didn't use biscuits, but pound cake, a cheap alternative that was encouraged during the Great Depression of her youth.
She'd tell me what she had brewing when I woke for breakfast and promise that, if I ate all my dinner and was a good girl, I'd get an extra dollop of homemade whipped cream with mine later that evening.
Under the shade of the Concord Grape arbor we'd eat our dinner in the waning sun of the late afternoon. After I gulped down my food I'd eagerly await the beat up tray of carefully made up desserts and notice mine in an instant, confirming my goodness by the extra-large mound of fluffy white cream, carefully drizzled with sweet, red juice.
Nothing has or could taste as good as that first bite of Grammie's summer Strawberries & Pound cake.
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