A flat of strawberries arrived Thursday, and the race was on. They disappear like summer, turning to soup in the warm air, uninterested in schedules and convenience. Sometimes I jam or freeze them, but this time, I devoted most to eating, beginning just after I brought them home with a pint rinsed and eaten greedily over the sink.
By Sunday, they had reached last-chance status, and I quartered the ones left, saved them in the refrigerator. Later, even after I’d washed my hands, my fingers still smelled of summer and seized opportunity.