I was in the mood for a delicious, sweet strawberry for breakfast. The grocery store had only these monstrosities. Look at the picture closely… that’s a quarter for comparison. I shouldn’t have bought them. Just like I thought - flavorless and mealy.
A lot of our fruits and vegetables are tasteless. I was lucky to be brought up with fresh produce right from the farm. Even when I lived in Chicago there was Mike the vegetable man. He was the epitome of an entrepreneur. He had clients all over the city. He would call me every Tuesday and let me know what was fresh from the farms surrounding Chicago. I would place my order and on Friday a bag of the freshest vegetables and fruit would be delivered to my doorstep - even in winter. So, my girls grew up knowing what produce should taste like. I’m afraid that if you only buy what’s in the grocery stores you will never know how good your veggies can be.
And then there was the year that my father joined a co-operative gardening plot in northern Virginia. I can’t remember exactly how big it was, but he had this plot of land alongside other amateur farmers, and he could plant what he wanted to. I remember zucchini and the squash flowers, and of course tomatoes and lettuce and cucumbers. But it was the string beans that literally took my breath away. They were the sweetest and most tender bean I have ever eaten. I would be a vegetarian if I could eat like that now.
But I digress…. it’s strawberries I came to talk about.
Have you ever eaten a wild strawberry?
I remember picking wild strawberries with my grandmother. Sometimes along the roadside; most of the time behind her house along the path to the pond. My fingers would be stained red for days. What I didn’t eat would be turned into jam or strawberry shortcake. Summertime was a delicious time.
Summertime and strawberries
Tucked into the gentle rise of a wooded hollow in upstate New York, a rambling Arts and Crafts style house sits quietly under a canopy of old maples and sugarbush. Its deep eaves, shingled gables, and wide porch draped with climbing hydrangeas suggest a place that has grown over time—added to by hand and heart, not plan. The house is long and low, built of stone and cedar, its many-paned windows catching dappled light from the trees that crowd close.
The house is one of a dozen homes along a narrow rural lane, the kind barely marked on a map, with gravel crunching under tires and deer wandering across at dusk. The neighbors know each other by name and share eggs, garden cuttings, and stories. Most homes are set well back from the road, with driveways softened by wildflowers and porches that carry the rhythm of quiet lives—rocking chairs, wind chimes, and the occasional cat sunning itself.
Inside, the kitchen is the heart of the house, filled with golden morning light that filters through lacy hand-tatted curtains—delicate loops and knots in soft ecru, made by someone’s great-aunt long ago. They flutter slightly when the windows are open to the summer air. At the center of the room is a humongous butcher block table, scarred and seasoned from years of use: bread kneaded, peaches canned, maps spread out, homework finished, family gathered. There are two full-sized refrigerators tucked into opposite corners—one always filled with garden bounty, fresh eggs, and leftovers from some generous meal. Open shelves hold crockery and canning jars, and a basket of rhubarb waits near the sink.
Out back, meandering stone paths wind through tall grasses and native plantings, past benches and a shady hammock strung between two trees. The scent of lilac and sweet woodruff hangs in the air. The paths lead down to a small pond edged with smooth rocks and overhung by willows. It’s perfect for summertime swimming, the water cool and clear, dragonflies flitting over the surface. A weathered dock stretches out just enough for a running leap, and a rope swing dangles from an old ash tree on the far side.
In June, the backyard explodes with wild strawberries—robust, tangled bushes hiding hundreds of tiny red gems. They grow thick under the raspberry canes and along the fence line, their sweet scent rising in the morning sun. Children—and anyone else lucky enough—crawl through the grass with stained fingers and wide grins, plucking the berries warm from the vine. It’s a place that feels like memory, like home, layered with seasons and stories.
Thanks for being here
Louise x