Chance = Change

Saturday, April 16, 2011

San Francisco

                                                The San Francisco Strawberry

Good morning Mommie –

I know I should begin your series of letters with descriptions of what brought Peter and me here, where we’re living, what we’re doing, and all that, but I had an experience just now, in our compact but useful kitchen here on Lombard Street that moved me to write, and that will sum up, metaphorically, my joy at living in California: I bit into a large, rich red, juicy,  perfect California strawberry.

I am now in my sixth decade (odd that you can’t see me as I’ve aged, but maybe you can) – and I can honestly say that in a lifetime of East Coast fruit consumption, I have never known what the big deal was about strawberries.  I’ve eaten them my entire life, mainly because I love all fruit and they seemed important to include in any bowl, given their small, colorful decorative possibilities. And even the wan, pinkish-rather-than red strawberry of the Eastern United States was better than no strawberry at all.   But I never rushed to buy quarts of them when they appeared in  grocery stores. And when I did buy them, they often languished in the bowl, as the fruit picked for no one’s team. Strawberries were the wall flowers of the fruit prom- even the apples went first.

But then a friend brought some halved berries – two months ago early –to his Carmel dinner table, and they were so sweetly juicy I assumed he had sugared and soak them in some strawberry liqueur. But he hadn’t. They were simply being themselves – and early in the season, too.  Even my California pal was surprised at how sweet they were. And that was the beginning of my affair of discovery: I was falling for the simple, yet well-grown strawberry. 

As they began to appear in my local Safeway and Trader Joe’s in huge numbers, costing ridiculously little – I began to cautiously bring home the odd carton, and invariably each berry was better than the last. My mouth simply could not believe it. These berries had life! They were not the dead, cardboard, imitation and tasteless berry that had been foisted on me all my life: these were a small sweet miracle in every bite. Their juices flowed down my chin, and I felt like I was French kissing every time I took a bite. I began to trust – and want -  the strawberry.

Then, this morning – half awake – I poured my first cup of freshly brewed Peet’s Coffee (another California blast of pure pleasure), and absent-mindedly picked up a large crimson berry, still ruffled in its green collar so cunning  -  a friend had left some after a dinner party two nights ago - and my mouth woke up with a grateful start. A small dribble of strawberry juice travelled slowly down my chin, and I felt so glad to be alive I had to write about it. So glad to be living in San Francisco, I had to tell you why: life is a waking thing here, Momma. Life is juicy.

I now live in a place where the fruits and vegetables taste like themselves. Where, like the people I am meeting every day in my neighborhood, even the produce seems to be content to be its perfect self, not some imagined idea of itself. I feel San Francisco as the authentic place for this awakening part of my life, and with the glorious local strawberry as my companion, I will never go hungry.

As ever,

Evalyn