Thursday night, and I have quarts of strawberries in front of me. My fingers are stained red with berry juice. The smell of June wafts through the house. I was ruthless tonight. I went late in search of berries, and when I finally got to the last farm stand on the river way – there was just one flat left. One flat, and two quarts – and they were looking like jam berries, and not dip in chocolate berries. I told the farmer, I’m going to take your last quarts here – and he looked at the display, and told me take them all for the price of a flat.
A woman behind me looked crestfallen, she had come for berries too. The farmer told her she could pick still. But as I was checking out, the girl at the register said the fields were done, they hadn’t let people pick in a couple of days. The woman asked me what I was doing with them – “jam and crumble, and pie” I said, “and freezing”. And then, I turned on my heel with my stash, as if I had burgled the deliciousness in the flat.
Some other day I might have shared the bounty, but tonight I was a woman who needed pie.