It's amazing how easily I forget what a real strawberry tastes like. As Brooklyn's streets are piled high with slush and snow, I am completely satisfied with my supermarket berries from Chile. Red, uniform and slightly sweet, they are what pass as delicious when the wind chill is below 25 degrees.
Fast forward to spring and a visit to my neighborhood greenmarket, where local berries, bursting with juicy sweetness are lined up in basket after basket, waiting to be downed in various forms -- chopped and tossed into the buttery batter of a Honey Pound Cake, or cut into slivers for a sunny addition to a Baby Spinach Salad with Goat Cheese, or simply sliced and heaped in a bowl with a splash or two of good Balsamic vinegar.
For now, I will dive in and enjoy berries as they were intended. Yet, I know as the autumn returns, my tastebuds will forget -- a convenient amnesia of sorts -- until springtime rolls around again and the strawberries are ripe and ready.
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