Disunited States of Bohemia: Strawberry Picking

Ethan bear, you stand accused of Grand Theft Strawberry.

June heralds the start of strawberry season in Oregon, and the "U-Pick" season with it. The wet spring, warm, dry summers and fertile soil conspire to make the Williamette Valley ideal farming country in the French style, that is to say the bucolic, romanticized French style without the antifreeze, fascist collaboration and sheep-burning.

Thanks to Rachel and Ethan's efforts, our own tiny garden boasts tomatoes, peppers, cucumbers, courgettes, rocket, lettuce, peas, string beans, tarragon, oregano, chives, dill, basil, mint, parsley, sage, thyme and rosemary. No strawberries though, but for these you do not have to travel very far out of town. And, much to my delight, when you get there you'll find them every bit as good as the English equivalent... Whilst most of America suffers monstrous, watery, fibrous and largely flavourless genetically-modified frankenstrawberries from the Californian valleys, we get them much like nature intended, for $1.99 a pound, including a few, ahem, samples. Once picked they seem to hardly last at all, so the secret is to pick only as many as you can possibly stuff yourself with in twenty four hours, or process them immediately into jam or ice-cream or whatever amazing uses industrious people have for strawberries besides Strawberry Shortcake, or its Imperial analogue, Eton Mess.

Ethan, now three years of age, cannot be relied upon in a picking capacity, but excels in the office of quality control. Otherwise he finds much delight in running up and down the ploughed rows and around the wide open spaces. Ever since he was tiny he has preferred to be outdoors, a trait which he did not inherit from me, but which I find entirely admirable.

Now of course it is July, the strawberries are already on the wane, and raspberry and blueberry seasons are upon us. I know, I know - it's a very tough life out West.