She'd send us younger kids out to the garden to pick strawberries. It was hard not to gorge our bellies on fresh picked berries, but we managed, because we knew we wanted to save room.
While we were picking berries, Sis would be making the "shortcake." Okay, it wasn't what most people call shortcake. Actually, it was sweet drop biscuits. She used buttermilk and butter that we'd made from the milk Bessie gave us. Actually, one of my brothers went out every morning with bucket in hand, and took it from her, but she was contented to give it.
We were always quicker with the berry-picking than Sis was with the shortcake-baking. We'd come in with strawberry juice all over our faces, swearing we didn't eat any. She'd put them in a bowl, sprinkle them with sugar, and put them in the fridge. By then we were all seated at the table, staring at her, asking "Are they done yet? How much longer? Are they done yet?"
When she'd finally pull the biscuits out of the oven, she'd split them open, and place them into our soup bowls. Then she'd scoop the cold strawberries over the hot biscuits, and we could finally start in on it. Sometimes she had made whipped cream, but usually not. If there was no whipped cream, we liked to pour milk over it. If you've ever had fresh milk, instead of the mass-produced watery version we all drink today, you know how good it is. As the pitcher was being passed around the table, nobody waited for the milk before starting. Afterall, there were 7 of us kids, plus Mom & step-dad. Your biscuits could get cold waiting. By the time the milk worked its way around the table to the baby (that's me), I'd finished my shortcake. I don't think I ever got milk on my shortcake until a couple of the older kids had grown up and moved out.
I haven't really enjoyed a strawberry shortcake since, except in my dreams. It's just never quite good enough.
