As usual, following our trip to Las Vegas and California, I've posted a set of pictures on Flickr.
So that's why I can never bring myself to buy strawberries anywhere; certainly not the giants in the supermarket, nor the California imports in my favorite Trader Joe's, and not even the smaller, homegrown ones at the farmers' market. Mine have to be my Dad's berries despite their being limited to just a few weeks in June and July. They have to be on the small side, with only the occasional larger, lucky berry, missed by the birds, to be savored as extra special. Then the berries have to be cut into pieces, no whole berries allowed, and sit just a bit so they get extra juicy. After that they must go on top of still-warm baking powder biscuits, so their juiciness softens the shortcake and drips around into the bowl. When cream from the pitcher (I never choose whipped) is poured over it all, it must merge with the juice and become a lovely shade of pink. When that bowl sits in front of me I know I'm eating berries with family in Orange, and I don't need or want to eat them anywhere else.
Hmmm...when I reach the age of 75 will I remember this?
Aagh! This was in yesterday's paper, but already you have to pay to access it unless you have a subscription to the Globe. The lead-in words on the link are the best part anyway. You can probably guess the missing end of the sentence but just in case, it says 'the day'.