Heavenly

For two days this week the air in my kitchen was infused with the fragrance of the sweetest, most delicious strawberries I've ever tasted. 

 My new friend Jason over at Ocean Song Farm in Barnstable described to me the first time he ate a Cape Cod Organic Farm strawberry straight off the plant while working in the field of this nearby farm. Jason, not previously a big fan of strawberries as he tells it, reported to me that these were the best he'd ever eaten. He is now a strawberry convert. Now, to my thinking, all farm fresh strawberries are usually pretty spectacular, so I took his claims of superior flavor in stride while filing away the info for future reference.

When my closest farm stand ran out of strawberries this week, I saw this as my opportunity to test Jason's claims. I made my way to Barnstable and arrived at CCOF to see workers, one by one, carrying pallets of strawberries high on their shoulders from the field to the stand. It was a beautiful Cape Cod summer day, and I knew those berries would be warm from the sun. I picked up two pints, and then a third, aware that this short season was about to end. I grabbed a big bag of arugula, some cilantro plants, and a cherry tomato plant to fill a gap in my garden. Before I had even pulled away from the farm stand, I popped one of those berries in my mouth and knew instantaneously that Jason was right. The berry nearly dissolved in my mouth, the flavor intense, sweet, ripe, round. These are the best strawberries I've ever eaten, and if there are better out there in the world, well then hooray for me.

With three pints of these gems sitting in my fridge, I felt sure I'd have plenty to freeze for the cold, berry-less winter months. However! I ate one pint the first day - for dinner sliced and tossed with the peppery arugula, goat cheese, balsamic vinegar and toasted walnuts. For desert accompanied by bite size morsels of cheese, these adorable Hannahbells from Shy Brothers Farm in nearby Westport, MA.

My friend Annie was visiting from Nantucket that night and we both indulged in berries and cheese, so while I didn't eat the entire pint myself, I came pretty close.

A second pint accompanied us on a visit to Boston where Dan's brother converted them to strawberry buttermilk pancakes. Lip smacking. The final lonely pint is now sitting in a strainer in my sink, it's numbers reduced every time I walk into the kitchen.

Perhaps next year, in anticipation of strawberry season, I'll be better about planning for the harvest. I will start buying earlier in the season and try a few recipes, slice and freeze some for winter when the comparatively flavorless grocery store strawberries have an unnaturally red hue. Meanwhile I am content to live in the strawberry moment and savor the remaining few.