The Joys Of Berries
The Strawberry:
Time and time again in Haines, and more generally, I have experienced a certain phenomenon. A serendipity of sorts, with a hint of déjà vu. I hesitate to call it fate or destiny, it is more a confirmation. A sign that instills a sense of confidence that I am exactly where I am meant to be in time and space, perhaps where I was always going to be despite feeling as if I had chosen a path amidst several. I am describing something very much like fate or something written in the stars, I am aware, but I believe it’s different. In my mind fate addresses large things in life, a larger picture or direction, this phenomenon is focused on everyday details, the tiny joys in life.
Of course, I always mean to write these moments down so I might be able to understand and express the experience more thoroughly, but usually I forget. I do not think for a moment this phenomenon is uniquely mine, however, I think as a traveler in constant movement these moments have a greater feeling of kismet. Just as déjà vu is a seemingly impossible feeling of familiarity in a place you have never been before, the occurrence and feeling of this phenomenon is made even more mysterious when in a place I have never been before.
Since arriving in Haines, Alaska I have experienced a slew of serendipity. The most obvious was the reoccurrence of my name all over town. The neighbor’s dog, the only inland lake in town, an old salmon company - apparently fish companies went through a marketing phase of naming companies after flowers to disassociate from the odor of fish. Perhaps I am only describing simple coincidence, but I adore coincidence.
This story is about strawberries, serendipitous strawberries.
The first strawberries began to show in Julie’s patch of wild plants, tiny, red and shaped like hearts. I had never interacted with a strawberry plant before and was completely smitten. Especially by their red arms that reached in every direction, looking for the right space to sprout tiny leaves, roots and create a daughter plant. I spent this morning, and every one after, with the strawberry plants. Some had no fruit yet, and others were kicking off, staggered as if they had held council and organized who would fruit first, then second and so on. A few who had no berries yet, tricked me with red spots on their leaves. These spots caught me eye, drew me to the plant and then gave me a laugh each time I fell for their prank.
That night I snuggled into bed and turned on Braiding Sweetgrass to continue listening. I had started the night before, years after a friend had recommended this book to me. My eyes closed, my ears intent, the chapter I had begun the previous night came to a close and the next began, “The Gift Of Strawberries” read by author Robin Wall Kimmerer in a voice as satisfying as the most perfect summer berry, comforting and mellifluous. I was so struck by this synchronicity I laughed and a warmth blanketed over me. I had spent that day utterly charmed by the strawberry plant and now strawberries were the subject of this next chapter. Perhaps without the feeling of coincidence, reading about this doesn’t feel particularly special, but serendipity is personal. To me, this was a hug telling me everything was okay. I didn’t feel like things were not okay, or maybe I hadn’t noticed I felt that way, either way it was lovely.
While these moments trigger the human curiosity that demands rational explanations for everything. We should surrender to the unknown and enjoy the sense that we really are apart of something larger: forces, energies, spirits, the universe, planets, gods? I couldn’t say what that larger force is exactly, but I am at peace with not knowing.
Rovin Wall Kimmerer begins her chapter with, “In a way I was raised by strawberries…it was the wild strawberries, beneath dewy leaves on an almost-summer morning, who gave me my sense of the world, my place in it….Even now, after more than fifty Strawberry Moons, finding a patch of wild strawberries still touches me with a sensation of surprise, a feeling of unworthiness and gratitude for the generosity and kindness that comes with an unexpected gift all wrapped in red and green.”
Her words helped me to understand what it was the strawberry plants made me feel. Why I spoke to them while I cared for them, pinching off old leaves and burdensome berries turning to brown mush, I was saying thank you, for the gift of the sweet red berry.
Thank you Strawberry and thank you Robin.
Rhubarb:
Hearty and reliable, rhubarb was growing like mad on a friend’s farm. Julie and I were invited to help ourselves and boy did we. This bounty fostered a vivacious appetite for rhubarb crumble.
All too soon we had to resupply, we hadn’t had a crumble in days. So we went on a hike to find a patch of rhubarb growing in a forest, left over from an original homestead. It must have been a site related to the logging industry because it was pretty high up on the mountain side. I was blown away at the idea of this garden living on with its gardener long gone, how beautiful to leave a legacy of rhubarb.
We hiked up with backpacks and found the clearing filled with rhubarb and fireweed. We filled our packs with pink and green stalks, and had just crumble for dinner.
The Raspberry:
Eating a raspberry is sentimental, a relic of the summer I spent in Norway.
On my afternoons off work, or at the end of a mornings run, I would visit the raspberry bushes in the village called Nordskot. First I would pick the ones along the dirt road, but soon enough I would be in the thicket. Half an hour later, fingers stained red and utterly content, I would head back home.
In Haines I had not noticed many raspberry bushes, until late July when my friend Emily came to visit and we took a morning walk. Along the way we noticed several bushes only a foot or two off the ground offering a tiny red fruit. Upon closer inspection we realized they were tiny raspberries.
Once we noticed one, hundreds appeared and we quickly filled a bag to take home for that evening’s crumble with vanilla ice cream.
The First Blueberries:
On an afternoon hike, Julie and I ran into a man named Bart. He reported finding mushrooms along the trail, prompted by the last few days of rain. He cooked them up for breakfast with a little butter and a slice of sourdough.
Julie isn’t a mushroom lover, but she kindly entertained my enthusiasm when I found what I thought might be a possibility. In the last few meters of our hike I saw another mushroom, pointed and said, “Julie look!”. She gasped, not for the mushroom, but the blueberry bushes surrounding the shroom.
Tiny berries hung, tucked away at the base of grouped leaves, they were slightly sweet, mostly tart, but nonetheless exciting. The gift of a berry is forever heart warming.
The Salmon Berry:
I’d never met a Salmon berry before Alaska. When I first heard about them I thought it might be another name for the cloud berry: a tangy orange, yellow raspberry of sorts that I had eaten last year in Norway, but the salmon berry is not a cloud berry.
Interestingly they come in a variety of colors: some all red, some all orange, some tie dyed with both orange and red. They are made up of tiny sections like the family of raspberry, cloud and blackberry, cone shaped with mild sweetness. I found their color more delicious then their flavor, but cooked up in a crumble they were delicious.
The Thimble Berry:
This berry shares color and texture with the raspberry, but in shape and flavor it is unique. Its shape is hemispherical or dome-like and fit nicely atop a finger like a thimble. It is an elegant berry with sophisticated flavor, it is challenging to describe but I will try.
This delicate berry melts in the mouth, it doesn’t require chewing like a blackberry would. At first it is sweet, then tangy, and then the flavor that lingers after the berry is gone is floral, fragrant, refreshing and light. Highly recommend sampling the Thimble berry if you every come across one.
The Crumble
Since arriving in Alaska, Julie and I had made countless crumbles. Now I’m not sure what the difference is exactly between the crumble, the crisp and the cobbler, but I do know that I am a big fan of all three, and of pies. A buttery crust or topping in any form accompanied by baked fruit spiced with cinnamon, nutmeg, maybe a little clove, all fresh out of the oven is my ideal desert.
What makes a crumble habit tireless, is that no two crumbles are the same. Despite following the same general guidelines, every crumble was unique: some more sweet, others tart, others more topping, others more butter, some made with last year’s rhubarb, some made with berries picked that day.
Initially, while we waited for the bounty of summer to arrive, our crumbles were made with last years rhubarb and blueberries, sometimes with an aging store bought apple as well. Then as the strawberries came in, I froze each day’s yield until we had enough for a crumble. Then the salmon berries and blueberries came in and we made a “Fruits Of The Forest Crumble”, as Julie named it, with rhubarb, strawberries, salmon berries and blueberries. And then, when the raspberries came in we had another new combination and another result.
The Julie Recipe
The Dough:
1 Cup of Almond Flour
1/2 Cup of Oats
1.5 Stick of Butter
1 Tbsp Cinnamon, nutmeg & preferred spices
Pinch of salt
Brown sugar to preference of sweetness
Let rest and marry together for a little bit
The Filling:
Collection of beloved fruits, fresh or frozen: berries, rhubarb, plums, peaches, apples, pears…
Sliced and added to a large bowl
1 Tbsp of preferred spices & brown sugar or maple syrup
Spritz of lemon and/or add zest
Let rest and marry together for a little bit
Assembly:
Heat oven to somewhere between 350 - 400˚F
Butter vessel
Add 1/3 of dough to the bottom of the vessel in clumps, not a layer
Add filling to vessel
Add the rest of the dough to the top
Bake until bubbling and browning occurs
The Small Things:
Berries are quite literally the small things in life that bring great joy. Off the bush is something special, something I’ve long thought to be one of the most romantic things. Nothing quite like getting lost in a patch of berry bushes, dodging deadly thorns to reach the most perfect fruit. Some a little under ripe, some a little over and some perfect.
While particularly magical when picked with your very own hands and placed into your very own mouth, a berry is delicious any which way: picked by hand, bought at a farmers market or at a Safeway near you. Straight up, sprinkled on some morning oats, baked into a pie or boiled into jam, Berries are the embodiment, flavor and color of summer time.