Some people have never tasted a perfect strawberry. Not just those who can’t make it out to the farm to pick their own. I mean people who scrunch up their noses at the perfect strawberry. It’s a lot darker than the other ones. The colour of a splash of Port. The juice of this strawberry is just as intoxicating and sweet. The strawberry plucked from the stem or the top of the green cardboard quart must be handled with care as the strawberry is soft and almost melts between your fingers. If you’ve bitten into one of these you can almost smell and taste the memory of it.
What I don’t understand is that people will drink milk that is refrigerated but really doesn’t need to be because it’s been pasteurized to death and is actually shelf stable. They spread congealed oils that have been squished, extruded, heated, cooled, mixed with some sort of bug juice colouring, onto their toast. They’ll eat fruit that tastes like nothing because it has been picked early to allow it to get from point A to very very far away point B and polished with floor wax. But g-d forbid that a piece of fruit is a bit squishy and may have an imperfect spot here or there.
I have nothing against beautiful presentation. We eat with our eyes first. I enjoy the beauty of a flawed, natural wooden floor over the perfect faux wood of a vinyl sheet. Ultimately flavour trumps looks. Get over a few bumps and dark spots and join me on the dark side. Everything tastes better here.