Every summer, I look forward to fresh, perfect Ontario strawberries. I usually start daydreaming about them in late May, and really looking forward to them in mid-June. On and around the solstice, I start seeing people rave about them, or walking home with baskets of them from the stores or the markets. This is when my hunt begins. I buy a basket of any juicy looking strawberry with that trillium logo or the word “local” on the placard. Get them straight home and wash them as soon as I step in the door, so I can find a quiet moment to bite into one as soon as possible.
This year though, I’d had a few baskets, and every one had turned out to be a fraud. Hothouse imitators grown locally, yes, but just slightly out of season perhaps, or leaner, hardier, more productive hybrids bred to stay platonically pretty on the shelves.
My disappointment coloured my entire view of life, if I’m being truthful. Some days I assumed it was me. Maybe I just didn’t really like food anymore. I’d leaned on the bliss of perfect deliciousness as a comfort so heavily in these lately difficult times that at last, it had faded to a shadow of its former self. A bittersweet memory to be sighed about each time I tasted the still-surprising disappointment of the pink-fleshed pretenders.
Other days, I looked on the food industry with disdain. Another magnate somewhere must have sold out. Big Fruit had spoken, and good strawberries were no longer a thing, too costly to produce even here where they are capable of working such magic on the hot, sunny days. Cheap cheerfulness would have to be good enough. Toss a little yogurt on it and call it a salad. Local berries are so sugary; these low-cal ones are better for your health.
Essentially, I had reached the point of resignation. I no longer needed to feverishly check the Foodland Ontario website every spring to mark my calendar for the start of strawberry season. Picking expeditions could be scheduled for the kids’ amusement if desired, but it was no longer a matter of urgency to get a trip to the fields in before the season was up. It was fine. The diluted berries were fine. My faith in food and my relationship with it were fine. Everything was fine. Fine fine fine.
Until.
Until a visit to the farmer’s market yesterday.
There were only 6 or 7 pint baskets when we arrived, deep red and rounded like baby cheeks, and they were one of the first things the little one gravitated to, looking up at me with inquiring eyes. I knew if I was going to get some we needed to act soon, but I was lukewarm on the idea. I’d decided the previous week that I didn’t need to spend Market money on strawberries anymore. For the strawberries we’re getting these days, Grocery money would be quite sufficient, thanks. Cherries perhaps, this time. Although. The child had ignored the cherries entirely so far, for perhaps the first time in her life. And these berries, well they were the platonic ideal of temptation. They looked so… Plump. Honest. Summery.
After doing a round of the market, subconsciously tracking the fruit table out of the corner of my eye the entire time, I sent the poor bored kid to the playground while I gathered veggies for dinner. When I had everything, I came back around and stood in front of the berries, squared off with that yeah, I bet face. Skeptically, I picked up a basket. As I brought it closer to my face to examine the batch, the smell. The smell. If you know, you know — you know?
A tumble of round, ripe strawberries, washed and drying on a floursack tea towel
So, yeah: I bet. I bit. I bought. If they tasted “fine”, that was okay too, because already I had that look and that aroma, piquing my tired faith, and these alone might be worth the $4.99.
But they were not alone. No they were not. While my child played on the swing with other kids from the neighbourhood, I found a bench, dipped into my market bag, and brought one perfect specimen back out into the sunlight. I took my time. THIS was mindful eating, without any need for guidance or deliberation. I did deep breathe though, savouring that scent again, the smell of summer finally resolving itself into fond memories and futures to look forward to and trifles and sundaes past and future. I almost dribbled red juice onto my shirt. The flavour… Well it all matched up. You know.
I’m not gonna lie, I felt a bit guilty. Not long after the full flavour hit my tongue, but slightly before the last pulpy flesh had been snatched from the hull, it occured to me that it might be unfair of me, nay, irresponsible even, to be keeping such a moment to myself. I closed my eyes, and took a mental picture (the wonderful thing about mental pictures is, they perfectly capture and convey things like aroma and flavour).
I finished my treat, and went to fetch the child. She would have to taste this goodness for herself. I hesitated a moment. I should get them home and washed first. But no, there wasn’t time. Faith might be on the line.
