Strawberry Ifeelmyself Link

The Strawberry Principle: Savoring Pleasure Without Permission

For a long time, I ate strawberries wrong. strawberry ifeelmyself

Go to the kitchen. Find the reddest thing in the fridge. Do not prepare it. Do not share it. Do not prepare it

Not the pale, seedy, refrigerated ghosts they sell in plastic clamshells in December. I’m talking about the real thing. The one you find tucked under a green canopy of leaves, still warm from the sun. It is so red it looks like a stop sign. It is so fragrant you can smell it before your lips even touch the skin. I’m talking about the real thing

I washed a single, perfect berry. I did not cut it. I sat by the window where the afternoon light hit my bare arms. I held it to my nose first—that green, sweet, almost peppery scent.

Not a nibble. A bite.

I would slice them neatly. Remove the green top with a surgical precision. Place them on a white ceramic plate next to a dollop of something low-fat and virtuous. I would eat them with a small fork, looking at my phone, barely tasting the tartness.