At the beginning...Hood strawberries

The creation of a thousand forests is in one acorn.

Ralph Waldo Emerson

I have in my possession a half-flat of sweet, fragile, succulent little red dynamos. One hand grips the outside of the box while the other side of the box rests precariously against my waist. The waist that I am sticking out as if with child, so desperate I am not to spill my precious load. My other hand, my free hand, is not really free at all. It is laden down with other purchases - a pound of slender yet crisp French green beans, shitake mushrooms I plan to sauté up later with a bit of butter and a sprinkling of sea salt, a large, bulbous spring onion that will probably find its way into a soup and of course, a baker's dozen of bite sized treats from Two Tarts. The smell from the flat is heady, intoxicating. Steadying myself, I glance around quickly. A second's worth of panic ripples through my body until I have laid eyes on each child. Okay, they are here. They were not swallowed up by the crowd. Without a free hand to hold another's, I hear myself calling out, "Careful." "Watch for cars." "Stay by Mommy." "Can one of you hold his hand?" The farther we get from the farmer's market, the more the throngs have dissipated. I can relax a bit. The excitement of my purchase growing. I can't wait to get home.

While some couples choose to spend their alone time hitting flea markets or independent film releases, my sweetie and I go to farmer's markets and grocery stores. Instead of Sunday drives, we drag our children around to see food. Smell food. Taste food. When we hit the road, whether here or abroad, the first place we visit is the local grocery store or an outdoor market, should we be so lucky to find one. We can't wait to see what they have to offer in that little corner of the world. The dazzling colors and cornucopia of scents puts us on a high that you can liken to a preschooler on Christmas morning. On a recent trip to that grand dame of cities, Paris, I dragged my hot, tired (in need of a bathroom) children to the Marché du Président Wilson. I simply had to see Joël Thiébault’s infamous Cœur de Bœuf tomatoes in person. I did not buy any, though, as I had no way of carrying the large orbs so as to prevent their delicate skin from splitting as we traipsed around the city. Just seeing them and smelling them was enough.

Safely to the car, I herd the children into our mode of transportation. I take one last glance at the purchases I’ve laid in the back, hoping they won’t spill. I drive off slow and steady. The warm, sweet smell immediately fills the whole of the car silencing everyone in a sort of reverence as we make our way home.

I have had it in my head for quite some time this idea that we're on the cusp of a food revolution. Although, revolution is quite a loaded word. Maybe it should be referred to as a food epiphany. A food revelation. A food manifesto, perhaps. I believe that everyone, at some level, realizes that our current relationship with food is toxic. Unhealthy. Just plain bad. But I can feel it. Smell it even. The tide is turning and personally, I find it fascinating. Thrilling even, to be here "rediscovering" what brought us together in the first place. Us and food. Back to the beginning of our relationship when it wasn't so cluttered with words like, hormones and transfat and antioxidants. When it was simply, "Pick. Eat. Enjoy."

Some celebrate the first day of yachting season, baseball season, the holiday season...my sweetie sends me text messages with photos attached to announce the opening of Hood season. Hood, as in, Hood strawberries. Those tiny little bundles of flavor whose early summer season is ever so fleeting. Those luscious, finger-staining berries grown clinging to vines up, down and around the arch created by the Willamette Valley and the Columbia Gorge. For three or four weeks, we buy them by the flat and promptly devour them. Every year we say we're going to buy extras and freeze them. A way to enjoy a little of summer in the depths of winter but somehow they never make it into the freezer.

I pull into the driveway. The children hop out and scatter. Anxiously walking around to the back, I flip open the trunk and pull out the precious, undisturbed berries. I holler out to my sweetie, "We're home!" I carefully place the load on the counter. Phew! My arms are weary but the berries are safe. Without nary a reference to maltodextrin or calories or any number of omegas, we stand around the flat, pluck off the little green caps, pop the berries into our mouths and swoon. So simple. So unassuming. So uncluttered. And, again, I can feel it. The tide. It's turning.

All original text and photographs copyright: Carrie Minns 2009