Having always preferred blueberries and raspberries to strawberries, I settled for second best at Kruger’s Farm on Sauvie Island. We had gone out there to canoe the wildlife preserve and just generally check out this very romantic old portland area landmark. the place is really amazing. a large island scattered with lakes and bogs and a multitude of pick it yourself berry patches. It's early in the season and so the lushest of fruits have not arrived yet.
At Krugers we were helped by a tall slender Amazon whose skin was awash with great tattoo art and I assumed that the strawberries would a reasonable addition to some lemon pound cake I had made the day before. Wrong. So wrong. These strawberries redefined the word. They were more like a rare exquisite wine than any strawberry I have ever eaten in my life. Jim and I didn’t even sit down to pause between the ohs and ahs and my gods we moaned as we devoured the quart in one session. Standing.
That took care of lunch and with the remains of a cheese fondue from last night I threw together a gruyere emmanthaler broccoli tart. At then later we watch the season three finale to sopranaos. Which reveals the reason that I am not reading any soprano blogs. No matter how cinematic.
So let’s hear it for canoes and fondues and strawberries and can-do’s – a scrub jay took in a dip in our waterfall and I am reading Elie Weisels Night- on the deck – in bright sun because anything else is as unthinkable as the story. Shalom and Achoo.
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