table talk / By Stephanie Silvia

Strawberry Nirvana

(July 8, 2010)  Oh, strawberries. As the opening day of the Farmers’ Market in Arcata approached in April, so did my anticipation of the first local strawberries of the season. How delicious this time of year can be after a dark, cold winter. Bright red, delicate and sweet, what better way to hail the time of warmth? As we know up here on the coast, warmth comes and goes. We take spring and summer however we can.

Strawberries and California go hand in hand for me. When I first visited my mythic uncle in Berkeley in the late ’70s my life changed. The life I would lead as an adult began my first night in San Francisco. My Boston College pal and I had tickets to the closing of Winterland. I knew this was it, my chance to be part of the magical and revolutionary happenings that had shaped my young psyche.

The noble strawberry PHOTO BY BOB DORAN

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Although the closing of the grand rock palace, with the Dead sending us off at 6 in the morning, served as an ending, it was an epic beginning for me. California. Holy Moly. I was in the Promised Land, where even food seemed more sophisticated and earthy than back home. Rock impresario Bill Graham sent us off into the Bay fog that morning with a brown-bagged breakfast — my first croissant and Bear Claw tucked inside.

After an enchanted jog in the Berkeley hills later that week, my uncle’s very cool girlfriend, Dee, bought me my first latte. I was entranced. The bite of espresso, the foaming milk, the hot glass in my cold hands. I went back to college with only one thought on my mind: How soon could I return?

As soon as school let out in May I was there. And wow! My first guacamole. I couldn’t get it on the chip quickly enough. My gruff uncle often brought me a lovely gift of a perfectly round red onion upon arriving home from the warehouse of his quintessential East Bay business, Berkeley Architecture and Salvage. And the aforementioned strawberries? Not that I had never eaten a luscious strawberry back east, but here the strawberry wasn’t part of a dessert, it was the main event.

After dinner with my uncle and Dee and their intellectual artistic friends, who treated me like an adult, not just a dumb Deadhead kid with idealistic notions, the hostess set out a mound of fresh local strawberries on a white platter in the middle of the dinner table. Next to the plate sat a shallow bowl of plain yogurt drizzled with a generous swirl of honey. We were to dip and savor as the heady talk continued, accompanied by freshly ground coffee made in a press. Never had a fruit, a berry, no less, left more of an impression on me.

That rustic repast continues to please whomever I lay it down in front of. Whether it’s a friendly potluck or a child’s party, everyone goes for the berries, yogurt and honey I serve all during this season. A few years ago, with a growing awareness of the value of locavore practices, I stopped buying out-of-season strawberries from unknown sources south of here. And I no longer buy them in season from corporate California farms, either, even those marked organic. It’s worth waiting for the choice strawberries that hail from Fortuna, Southern Humboldt and east on 299.

A few weeks ago on a rare Saturday morning when we could have slept in due to the lack of a Little League game or practice, I roused myself and my 11-year-old early, cajoling visions of strawberries dipped in a tad of sugar to put on his granola if we hurried. Imagine my surprise when we arrived at the Market and found strawberry stands galore. Our first stop was a purchase of two baskets from a farm in Willow Creek, the berries a bit small, but sweet and delicious. As we walked around the Plaza we found Saechao’s Strawberries from Fortuna. These specimens were magnificent. We bought a whole flat with plenty to share as a birthday gift with the friend who had alerted us to the Hmong growers and her favorite strawberry stand.

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