Yay! Good for me! Even though I didn’t manage to get up before noon today or do most of the things I promised myself I’d do, I did get out to market today, and although by then most merchants were packing it up, I managed to get beef brochettes marinated in orange, curried deboned chicken thighs and pecan-smothered porc loin for the barbecue. Then from the specialty shop, a balsamic vinegar at half the price, twice the quantity than the one I usually get, same quality, and organic to boot. All I had to do was mention I wanted a more economical alternative. The last stop was the strawberry stand where they were liquidating their last remaining crates at discount prices. It’s been this way all of my life, but somehow I’m always shocked when just about a week before my birthday they declare local strawberry season all but over. It always seems to come much too soon. You’d think I’d be used to it by now. It made no sense to buy a small basket since the half crate came out so much cheaper. But what am I going to do with all those strawberries? I wondered. There aren’t enough to make jam, but too many for just my breakfast cereal… I know, I’ll go on a strawberry diet and just have strawberries with every meal, snack and dessert. All stawberries, all the time.
I was cleaning a handful of the beautiful ripe berries just a short while ago. A snack to accompany a glass of lovely Masi rosé wine which I’ve stocked up to hopefully last the summer. I get into a special zone whenever the water is running and for some reason I got to thinking that my life would have been so so very much better had I been born three weeks earlier, as I was originally supposed to. For one thing, I probably wouldn’t be chronically late for everything all of the time. I’d be a Gemini instead of Cancer and probably more outgoing, more willing to take risks, less of an introvert, among other things. There would be bunches of Peonies—my favourite flowers—everywhere to wake up to on the day of my birthday. And strawberry season would just barely be getting started. Beginnings are always so much more encouraging than endings, don’t you think? Shoulda Woulda Coulda. I can’t exactly blame myself for being born 3 weeks late, can I? Not like I was lazy or unmotivated right from the womb, was I? And not like I can go back and fix it either (I’m sure my mother wouldn’t be thrilled to go over the whole exercise again—but just think! Three weeks less of dragging my unborn self around in scorching weather!).
Yeh. So what’s the point? Where am I going with all this? Well, not to the Jazz festival, that’s for sure, even though an old friend contacted me today to suggest we go together this evening. But oh! the crowds! And oh! The commotion! No, I’m much better off right here on my balcony sipping my wine and popping one of the last local strawberries of 2009 into my mouth.
Let me take you down, cause I’m going to
Nothing is real
And nothing to get hung about
Strawberry fields forever