In most of the temperate world, strawberries are a sign of the summer’s coming, the heralds announcing the end of spring. Here in coastal Nova Scotia, our strawberries ripen in friggin’ July. Figures. I first discovered how ubiquitous the wild strawberries are two and a half years ago, within 24 hours of moving into my house. My front yard, now I know, is more strawberries than grass, as are the so-called lawns of all my neighbors.
Wild strawberries are bright red, tart and the size of my little fingernail. It takes a few thousand of these buggers to make anything worthwhile. This, you might argue, is a perfectly good reason to not bother with picking them. I disagree. Food, free food that grows without planting or watering or tending to (or pruning, or frost-wrapping, or trying to save from goats, or de-contaminating of aphids) is a gift from (enter deity of choice here). So it takes hours to pick it- hours of lounging in the grass on a summer’s day, while gleefully hunting for treasure under the leaves. Hmm. That does not qualify as Work in my books, whatever you say. That’s more like the best damn way to spend a summer day, and the berries are just the fringe benefit.
(image courtesy of smartphotostock.com)
Now, here’s my question: why the hell does NOBODY ELSE pick wild strawberries around here? This year the berries were so abundant that I gathered an entire potful in one afternoon, which made 4 good-sized jars of delicious jam. I bet, if we did the math, we’d find there are hundreds of pounds of wild strawberries in the dinky town of Cow Bay alone, quietly decaying under the leaves where most of them are concealed. This is not just a waste, it’s outright disrespectful to the earth under your feet- especially if you consider that most folks are at the supermarket as we speak, buying methyl-bromide-sprayed California strawberries that have been shipped here in refrigerated trucks using oodles of oil.
Harumph. So that sums up the situation. And here are the parts I REALLY don’t understand:
- How come nobody even NOTICES that under their toes lie strawberry fields? My neighbors have been around for years, and didn’t know their yard was covered in strawberries until I picked one beside our feet and held it up to them. (They responded with a non-committal “huh, how interesting” and continued to ignore their existence.)
- People claim they have no time. Assuming this is true, and that they are not wasting 6 hours a day binge-watching the Game of Thrones, then why are they not setting their kids on the quest? The average three-year-old can recognize a strawberry, and a pair of sibling can scour a yard more efficiently than a pig that’s caught a scent of truffles. They’d have a ball at it, too- it’s a treasure hunt, remember? And if you want to add a little extra motivation, you can always mention strawberry shortcake.
- In an age where the word “parenting” has become a gerund for reasons I can’t for the life of me understand, why has “berrying” fallen out of use??
The Oracle say: Do my cranky ass a favor today, and go pick something wild to eat. Then thank the earth for all the work you didn’t have to do, and be proud of yourself.