I think I've mentioned that when the raspberries were ripe Chloë and I would go out and eat them. If not, well, we did, to the point where anytime we passed the raspberry patch she would point and expect to be fed. The first harvest passed, but the second is now beginning. The golden raspberries don't seem to be coming up with a second round, but the red ones are, and they're plump and firm and huge and flavorful and in all ways wonderful. So Chloë expects to be fed again.
This afternoon she was sleeping when I got home from work, so I went out and picked a small bowlful. She was too hungry to wait for dinner, so she ate most of them while we cooked. She'd snatch one from my fingers, shove it immediately into her mouth so as not to waste a drop or a drupelet, and quietly, happily chew until it was gone, when she'd screech to demand another one.
Dinner was fried rice, and she started out with fork and spoon. Then she decided it was too hard and used her hands. Before long she pulled her bib off, her sign that she's done, so I went for the usual wet paper towel while Eric did damage control on the rice down her front and on her arms and thighs. She flapped at us a couple of times, but allowed our ministrations.
Then she blew a wet raspberry. She's been doing this, and sometimes it's cute and sometimes it's gross, spittle overflowing down her lip and chin. This time Eric blew one in response, and she blew another one right at him. She was delighted he'd finally figured out how to play along.