Strawberries

Strawberries
By Arlene Levin (c) 2019

The summer of 1968 Michael and I moved to Toronto “THE GOOD”, as it was known then. The Sunday Blue Laws were still enforced which meant that commerce in the city totally shut down. There were exceptions, the corner variety store, tourist areas and restaurants.  You could go to the movies, but as I recall, only in the evening.

The first time I walked through the Kensington Market it was a Sunday afternoon. Everything was closed. The live chicken crates were empty as were the fruit and vegetable stands. I walked past empty boxes piled high in front of stores. The refuge left from the busy Saturday business day was waiting for the garbage collectors. Bits of newspaper were caught by the wind and carried down the deserted streets the way tumble weed bounces across the desert floor.

Back then I never lived far from the market. On Saturdays I went to the cheese store just before closing to buy a few pounds of their on-sale-left-over cheese ends.  This along with a flat of eggs was an important part of my diet. 

My late afternoon shopping continued with stops at my favorite vegetable and fruit vendors. They almost always had a special just-before-closing deal for me. The food was fresh, good quality and it was fun just to be there.

Late one snowy Saturday afternoon I struggled to get myself up and out the door for my weekly trip to the market. On the street I was surprised. It wasn’t cold. In fact it was quite pleasant strolling through the gentle snowfall. I reached my destination at dusk.

Walking along Kensington Ave. to my favorite vegetable vendor I passed a make-shift display set up in front of an empty store. On wooden boxes I saw arrangements of small fruit baskets, some were almost completely covered with snow. There were bright red knobs of color peaking through their snowy white blanket. As I looked more closely my astonishment built.

The proprietor, a man of undetermined age and ethnic background, smiled through the huge warm wool scarves that covered most of his face. He picked up a small fruit basket and brushed off the snow. He handed it to me with a twinkle in his eye. In a thick accent he whispered, “Madame, I bring you strawberries in January”. I shook my head in disbelief and thought “Fresh strawberries in January?” When I was a kid winter fruits were apples and oranges, grapes, pears and bananas. I thought,"What a treat".  I paid the vendor, thanked him and gleefully took this unexpected treasure home.

For dessert that evening I triumphantly presented my culinary surprise. “Where did you find these?” Michael exclaimed with astonished delight. I revealed nothing but a knowing smile as we feasted merrily on sweet berries and cream.

Fast forward to January 2015. I am lucky to be wintering in a small rural town in Northern Arkansas. For breakfast? Fruit salad with blueberries and grapes from Chile, bananas from Honduras, pineapples and mangoes from Costa Rica and, of course, strawberries from a little closer, San Diego California. How times have changed. From all over the world, these fruits found their way to our supermarket in Yellville Arkansas, population 1312.

My mind wanders as I finish preparing the salad. Nostalgically I remember the old ritual of making a wish as one bites into the first fruits of the season...your first cherry, plum, a peach so sweet the juice runs down your arm. What have we lost? “In a way I miss the simple pleasure of anticipating and then experiencing the first sweet gifts of the season after the resting of a long winter.”