We are camped in Weed, California, a town name that surely engenders lots of comments and jokes. The campground owners told us that the town is named after its founding father, a man who harvested lumber which is still in plentiful supply. Mt. Shasta is within view, a mountain that looks much more dramatic from the highway than when you drove up onto it. It's on national forest lands and except for hiking trails and tent campgrounds appears quite undeveloped and wild.
We should have expected, but had nevertheless forgotten, that when you cross the California border, you encounter their friendly agricultural police who are ready, willing and able to confiscate whatever worries them. Our driver played dumb, which he kind of is, having little idea of what our frig contains at any given moment. So I gradually fed him things to say: apples, grapes, lettuce - and them he let us go. At lunch I inhaled the rest of my precious raspberries. It would have broken my heart if he had taken those.