Raspberry season

My roommate is a bit squeamish. I try to protect her from anything that I think will bother her; for instance, when we catch a mouse in one of our traps, I tell her to close her eyes while I dispose of the mouse and then hop around the kitchen, wringing my hands. I make sure to take the garbage out immediately so she won't accidentally catch a glimpse of a bloody little tail peeking out. I once found a moth in our ten-pound bag of flour, and disposed of the moth, sifted through the bag to check for other moths, and put the bag in the freezer without breathing a word of it to my roommate, knowing she'd want to toss the whole bag if she knew the truth.

Last week, though, I slipped up when she asked me if I wash the raspberries we get in our farm share.

"Want to hear something gross about the raspberries?" I asked, thinking that if I prefaced my story with that question I was giving her an out. But of course no one ever replies no to a question like that.

"Tell me," she replied.

"If you look at them really closely, you can see there are tiny little white worms on them."

"GROSS," she replied. "So, you're saying that yes, you do wash them?"

"No," I replied honestly, "I eat them with the worms."

"Next time you ask if I want to hear something gross, I'm going to say no," she answered.

Somehow ever since then, I've been the only one eating the raspberries in our fridge. They're delicious. And they've got extra protein.