I found these little guys peaking out shyly from my farm share bag yesterday. Slightly fuzzy like baby peaches, their tender flesh glowed flame red under the bright sun. Ahh . . . summer. This is the stuff of dreams.
These guys were so ripe, they needed no adornment. But I was in the mood for something particularly sinful and indulgent. So a few drops of a dark and sticky balsamic and a spoonful of tupelo honey found their way into my bowl. Along with a glass of crisp un-oaked chardonnay, I could almost see the endless strawberry fields from my balcony.
"Living is easy with eyes closed, misunderstanding all you see. It's getting hard to be someone but it all works out, it doesn't matter much to me. Let me take you down, 'cause I'm going to Strawberry Fields. Nothing is real and nothing to get hungabout. Strawberry Fields forever."
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