When I was a kid, the beginning of summer was heralded by a series of school bells, half days, and an increasingly lighter backpack as I turned in my textbooks, one by one.
As an adult, summer is signaled by strawberry season: those last couple weeks of May and early June when “hot” is still a novelty and I’ll take any excuse to be outside– even if it’s hunched over a row of strawberries with an aching back.
I always imagine strawberry picking to be this idyllic, charming affair, like going to high tea or touring a garden, or using phrases like “We’re summering in Dorset”. In my head, I’m always dressed in white with a wide brimmed straw hat and matching basket, miraculously filled without strain or sweat. While I stroll through lanes of strawberries, a light breeze picks up and cools my brow as I admire all that the strawberry field has to offer.
In reality, I’m wearing my old track t-shirt (City Champions 1996), gym shorts and sneakers. My hair is in a messy bun and I forgot my sunglasses in the car. Squatting next to my bucket of berries, I paw through the leaves searching– trying not to jerk as small white spiders skittering among the leaves, trip over my strawberry stained fingers.
The only thing that ties fantasy and reality together is the heavenly taste of the strawberries themselves. Warm and fragrant; sweet and juicy– they taste just as good as I imagine. Better even– they taste like summer.
