It happens every March. The itch for berries.
Fresh ones. The kind that grow haphazardly on branches or in patches in our backyard. The kind that, glancing at our backyard, are nowhere close to budding because we haven’t seen the sun for months. And because, well, it ain’t July.
But God bless California whose berries, though no permanent replacement for the western Washington ones we’re drooling for, are being harvested now and trucked up to Fred Meyer five miles from our house. Because…
because they make my kids dance. And because they cause delighted conflict when my son licks all the big ones, so that no one else will want them.
Only his sister claims she still does.
Which leaves me to conclude that what matters around here isn’t the amount of saliva on the berry.
But simply its size.