You smell of strawberry…

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Because you really are one ... berry much so. Not from a punnet I dumped into my shopping trolley while strolling through the freezer aisle of the supermarket, but handpicked from a planter whose bushy growth I had watered to fruition at our doorstep. I bought her almost five years ago at the Thursday market from a farmer who was about to pack up for the day. Obviously the strawberry plant in question was among the few unsold ones, abandoned by earlier strawberry lovers after favoring her healthier sisters. She survived five Abha winters and withstood neglect during the few weeks I went mad grading papers without being able to nurse her. Almost zero care. Maybe my farm guru, Damoderettan, was correct when he said: “Lending your pair of eyes to your plants is the best fertilizer".

Interestingly, three things conspired to produce this post. First, the Hijri New Year; second, the word ‘locavore’ as a new addition to my personal vocabulary; and third, a rather compulsive inner calling to share something about a faithful plant at my doorstep unfailingly producing berries in season. In short, I am left with no choice but to bore you with yet another tale of a comestible. Sorry for presuming that we need a new year to begin anything afresh. Take it as some good-natured narrative fun.  I love strawberries for their sexy smell and bright ruby red color. I grow them, quite arguably, as part of my New Year’s resolution to be a locavore, at least strawberry-wise!
         Thank goodness strawberries do not count among my staple fruits. Not because I don’t love them, but I simply can't be a locavore every time I pine away for a strawberry. Locavores are ecologically sensitive guys trying to eat locally sourced food only, in an attempt to restrict their food mileage to a radius of 100 miles. By the way, don’t share these ramblings with anyone you know, because they are top secret. As Tsugumi Ohba, author of Death Note said, “If you keep my secret, this strawberry is yours”.

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