Signs of Spring, Sort Of
Whilst playing hooky from work on Friday, I stopped at one of my favorite supermarkets for a few non-refrigerated staples before heading to yoga class. I was stopped dead in the produce section by the smell of fresh strawberries. I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d smelled fresh strawberries, let alone eaten them. I hunted through the stack of perforated plastic boxes, looking for the box with the reddest, smallest, most fragrant strawberries. I put the box in the cart’s child seat so that I could occasionally lean over and sniff the berries as I finished the rest of my shopping. When I checked out, I pulled the box out of the grocery bag and took it into the front seat with me. I stopped to smell the berries at every red light between the grocery and the gym. And no sooner had I pulled into a parking spot than that box was open and I was nibbling strawberries in the front seat of my car, heedless of the strange looks from the guy in the car next to me. I suppose it’s not often you see someone having an in-car picnic with the same furtive joy and enthusiasm other people reserve for snorting coke in nightclub restrooms. I had finished my box of strawberries by Saturday afternoon, and went back for another box on Sunday. And as good as the second box is, nothing quite matched the sheer pleasure of sitting in my car in the sun, nibbling on the first strawberries of the season.
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