Strawberries bloom, set fruit, and ripen—sunny side first, underbelly last—then vanish.
In 16 years of protecting a patch, fenced off from dog paw and mower blade, I’ve yet to taste a berry.
Bunnies may shoulder the blame. Or robins. Or some other stealthy, juice-stained culprit, one with a knack for nailing peak season.
This year, however, I’ve got berries. Quarts of plump, seed-stippled sweethearts.
I’m not sure what’s distracting my berry scoundrels, but I’ve got a theory: cicadas. To me, a Brood X rookie, billions of red-eyed bugs crawling out of the dirt, bursting from their skins, thrumming, shagging, and keeling over—stripes up—counts as creepy. To my dog, it’s a miracle. Every inch of his territory is stuffed with crunchy treats.
I’m guessing that whoever usually snags the strawberries is busy stalking bigger game. Leaving the berries behind. Ample reason to bake a set of strawberry-striped cakes and pack them into berry baskets. Indulge now. The next batch won’t be ready for 17 years.
