favorite things 5: strawberries

I was always a very picky eater. I mean, I still am, to a degree, though I’m way less picky than I used to be, mainly because over time, I’ve made myself eat and evaluate food I believed was vile. (Yeah I passed judgment on food without ever actually tasting it, but I think that’s what kids do.) Some food I discovered I liked: avocados, peppers. Some I just really hate: tomatoes, mushrooms. I’m still wary of raspberries because I hate all those damn little seeds (I suppose if I had to categorize them, they’d go on a list called “Oh, all right, but I’d really rather not”), and for a long time, I lumped strawberries into the same category. But then that changed, of course, or I wouldn’t be writing about them today.

I don’t remember the exact date or how old I was (let’s go with 11), but I remember that it was summer vacation. The first Monday after school let out, and I went with my grandmother and her friend Pauline and picked strawberries. If you’ve ever been strawberry picking, then you know the deal: you get buckets, you pick strawberries, you pay for them, you leave. So I had my buckets and two rows of vines to work, and my grandmother was a couple of rows over. I don’t remember where Pauline was, but she was probably nearby. Anyway, by that point in my life, I was familiar with harvesting fresh food out of gardens, but I’d never picked strawberries before. It didn’t take long to settle into a rhythm, and I worked my way along the vines, plucking fruit and tossing it into a bucket. At some point, because you know, why not, I picked a large, incredibly ripe strawberry and popped it into my mouth. It was sun-warm and delicious. The juice ran down my chin and I wiped at it with my sleeve. My grandma — she wasn’t even looking up, I swear, so how did she know — immediately said, “Don’t eat those. You don’t know what they sprayed on those things.” I went back to work and considered death by chemical poisoning, but things had shifted in an oh-so-subtle way: not only had strawberries immediately moved from the “Oh, all right, but I’d really rather not” list straight to the “Yes, please” list, I had also found another thing I was not supposed to do.

By the time I was that age, and for the purposes of this post, we’re going with 11, I was already incredibly familiar with rebellion. My mom says that I was mostly a well-behaved child, but there were times when I just couldn’t help myself: consequences be damned, I was going to do what I wanted. By the time I was that age, I’d already stolen things and gotten into fights and told gigantic lies (sometimes to cover up my transgressions, and sometimes just because). I’d already discovered something in me, a wayward streak that I sometimes just couldn’t stop, and misbehaving, even (or maybe especially) if just quietly, was a true pleasure. The point is that while death by chemical poisoning was something to be considered, I kept eating strawberries anyway.

Do you know about strawberries in June, warm on the vine? If you don’t, then I’m not sure I can explain them, exactly. I find that when it comes to some things, words may come close, but they never quite get there. Of course I’m going to try, because that’s the point of this little exercise. Strawberries in June, warm on the vine taste like sweetness and summer sun. There’s something inherently sexy about them, and though I can tell you with certainty that I wasn’t concerned in the slightest with sexiness when I was 11, I feel perfectly comfortable assigning that attribute to them now. In some way, I suppose the sensation of biting into a warm June strawberry is in the same family as knowing better but kissing him anyway because damn, you don’t care.

Sort of.

I don’t know if any strawberry has ever been as good as that first one that taught me that you know, I really do love strawberries, and I haven’t been berry picking in years, but every year when I see them in a market stall, sinfully red and waiting, I have to buy them and eat them, just to check.