Is there a sexier, more luscious and sensual fruit in all of God’s kingdom than the strawberry? The fig, maybe, but its rather drab exterior color lacks the verve and pizzazz and “Please have me, it’s spring and I want you to be happy and fulfilled” invitation of the so very, very red strawberry.
Red is a power color, a “Here I am and do I feel alive!” statement to the cosmos and anyone within it who happens to be looking at you, and your dress or shirt, and that basket (or flat!) of strawberries you’re waltzing away with from the farmer’s market on a sparkly spring Saturday.
I like my strawberries straight, with a chaser of a few more to follow, but let’s face it, there is just no bad way to have a strawberry. In a shake or on a cheesecake, on ice cream or pancakes or plopped in a champagne flute. Mashed right into a muffin; just let me have it, baby. Now!
Yes, strawberries tell us not to dally with life’s pleasures, that lesson learned but too often forgotten as the day’s tasks divert our attention and the fruit, bursting with pleasure-in-potentia and at its very peak, sits untouched all day on the counter, decaying far more quickly than we would hope. Once tucked and comfy in that basket, strawberries must be engaged, loved, taken in. Best not to wait till the morrow.
Gosh, it must be spring.
So as the earth gets into high gear with its blooming, bursting and bodacious display of all things green and growing, I bequeath you these photos by photographers with their own Visions of Strawberry, and this juicy romp of a poem by Genevieve (unlikely name, that!) Taggard, another proponent, apparently, of full-body, whole-soul immersion in this most come hither of fruits.
Millions of Strawberries
Marcia and I went over the curve,
Eating our way down
Jewels of strawberries we didn’t deserve,
Eating our way down
Till our hands were sticky, and our lips painted.
And over us the hot day fainted,
And we saw snakes,
And got scratched,
And a lust overcame us for the red unmatched
Small buds of berries,
Till we lay down—
Eating our way down—
And rolled in the berries like two little dogs,
In the late gold.
And gnats hummed,
And it was cold,
And home we went, home without a berry,
Painted red and brown,
Eating our way down.
—Genevieve Taggard, 1929
Many thanks to the photographers whose efforts and eye grace this page:
Rotating banner photos top of page, courtesy of Elizabeth Haslam @ https://www.flickr.com/photos/lizhaslam/
Strawberries atop cheesecake and bottom photo with water drop, courtesy of ccho @ http://www.flickr.com/photos/ccho
“Splash” photo in water courtesy of Abdul Rahman @ http://www.flickr.com/people/yunir/