I don’t like strawberries. I used to when I was little, but one summer the strawberry plants my dad grew on the side of the house would not stop producing strawberries. Dad would clean and cut a big pile of them every two or three days. There were always strawberries in the refrigerator. I ate them with breakfast, snacks, and desert. This was also the summer that I had my first real growth spurt, so I ate anything I could shove in to my mouth. By the end of the summer, I was still hungry, but I could not stand looking at a strawberry. Forty years later, I’ll tolerate them to be polite, but will otherwise steer clear of strawberries.