I bought these strawberries on Friday. The sign said Ontario. Here, at last, was the answer the kid in the back seat of the car was gunning for. We were finally the fuck there.
I could shrug off the cold grip of this hellish pandemic winter and run headlong into spring's emerald embrace.
At home, I ate one. They were sour. They may have been grown in the province, but it was most likely in a greenhouse.
So sugar stands in as a pinch hitter for the sun.
And they were shippers. Picked before reaching their zenith all for the sake of travel. The natural life cycle cut short and the berry's essential pleasure left in the field.
I could get drunk on the smell of strawberries in June. Bringing them home from the farmer's market is like running with a stack of porcelain teacups. The tiniest bump and a crimson stain spreads like blood through the paper bag.
I had glorious greenhouse strawberries in Quebec so long ago at Toque! (sigh)
But few human interventions equal the aromatic imprint that hot direct sun, straw to keep the damp at bay, and dark loamy earth has on a strawberry.
Maybe next time, I won't let impatience get the best of me.
Soundtrack - 1994