Life is sweet these days: strawberries are in season. I was at Young Brothers yesterday, just about the cheapest place on Vancouver’s west side for fresh fruits and veggies (cash only, no organic but plenty local), and there they were, just picked, nestled comfortably in green cardboard cartons. Local strawberries. They weren’t even their usual, Pacific Northwest soggy selves, thanks to an unusual run of hot weather.
They were beautiful. Ridiculously red. Smallish and almost heart-shaped. I fell in love. I blew my budget and bought four pounds. I cradled the two boxes in my arms as I left the store and cautiously drove home, avoiding sudden stops. At the sink, I gently brushed the dirt away and rinsed them oh-so-slightly in water before standing them stem side down on baking sheets outside for the sun to kiss dry.
Then I blew it. I left them alone. With a teen twit around. And while he does spend most of his time home sequestered in the dank, sweaty safety of his bedroom, he is a strawberry fiend. He ate them all within 20 minutes. He told me later that they tasted like jewels, like rubies.
(twit = those whom I tirelessly serve)