There are few joys in life as sweet as picking a perfectly ripe strawberry. Summer treasure hidden among the leaves and the straw, bursting brightly with sweetness.
They are, without doubt, my favourite thing to eat.
We grew them in our garden when I was a child. Rows and rows of luscious plants, heavy with sweet berries all summer long. In May, when the pale flowers began to appear, my dad would carefully stake out the end of each row with a piece of wood, just taller than the plants, from which to hang the net that would protect the growing fruit from beady-eyed blackbirds.
It was my job to crawl under and free the birds when they found a way into the patch. They’d flap their wings against the dark green net, chittering with fright, until I could find a way to unhook their wings and release them.
When the berries were ripe, my sister and I would spend what seemed like hours crouched down among the dust and the dark green leaves, seeking out the red riches. We collected the berries in a colander – to make it easier to rinse the dust off – but so many didn’t even make it to the sink. We ate handfuls straight from the plant, tasting the warm sunshine and the summer rain.
I would have them for every meal if I could, but if the weather was just right we’d end up with so many berries that even I would have to admit defeat and we’d take them to neighbours, chapping on their doors with our red-stained hands and handing them over with grins on our freckled faces.
The smell from the strawberry patch seemed other worldly to me. Warm and lush, earthy and alive. Nature at its most vivid – those precious bright red gems, bursting with beauty and taste among the green leaves. But the perfect strawberry is only ever hours away from rotting into pungent disappointment. If there is no joy as sweet as finding a perfectly ripe strawberry, there is no sadness as sour as discovering one that has started to decay.
Summers spent collecting our heart-shaped harvest made me a master at spotting the tastiest fruit. If the berries are too dark and the seeds are rough, they will be bitter. If the berry is red but the top is white, it will taste sour. Too big, and it will be watery. Too small and it will taste too sweet. The perfect strawberry is medium, bright red and shiny, with vivid green seeds, smooth to the touch.
I’m 37 now. My dad still grows strawberries in the same garden. Each year, when I take a bite out of the first fruit of the season I know exactly how Proust felt when he tasted that petite madeleine.
It has been 20 years since I left home, but the only thing that has changed is that is there’s another generation of children now to free the blackbirds from the net.
Do Not Touch The Lobsters 