It is March, the home stretch (please…) of winter. Sunny and -5C, with dirty, hard, crusty berms of snow littering the landscape.

And I just ate strawberries. Big, ripe, red strawberries. My hopes were low. I’m a Canadian. There’s only about one month a year when strawberries are “real”. But they smelled like strawberries. And, wonder of wonders, they tasted like strawberries.

Not sun-ripened in June and sold by the flat at the farmers market the day they’re picked, but also not tasteless and vaguely crunchy strawberry-esque shapes brought to you by the state of California. Juice ran down my fingers. The flesh melted on the tongue and the seeds tried to sneak between my teeth.

I feel like I just ate summer. And any person living in a northern climate can tell you how amazing that feels when you reach this time of year. Who needs an SAD lamp? One-pound clamshell of red, ripe goodness, coming up. 🙂

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