The best part of the New York summer hikes of my youth was
wild strawberries. The shrubs were unassuming, tucked among sumac and
fiddlehead ferns. The berries themselves were scarcely bigger than peas, but so
flavorful. My mouth waters just from the memory. Commercial berries may come
the size of hen’s eggs, but they can’t touch the taste of the wild ones. As far
as I know, wild strawberries don’t grow in Utah. (I would LOVE to be proven wrong.)
So the closest I can come is to grow my own. Last spring I bought a dozen strawberry
plants that promised to bear white, pineapple-flavored fruit. They broke that
promise, but the plants are still thriving. This year I added a hanging basket
full of ever-bearers that’s already producing a good crop. I may harvest a few
handfuls today to celebrate National Strawberry Sundae Day. Or I may just stand
in the garden and eat as I pick them.
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