Fruitful Meditations on a Dreary Morning

I caught a cold this week. It's the sore throat, headache, sneezing kind. Annoying, tiring. To add to the general misery, rain has been falling for two days, so no bright Carolina sun to improve my health or my mood. The cold also means I haven't gotten to the grocery store for basics, and since Hubby has been at a retreat for a couple of days, this morning the refrigerator looks very empty. Breakfast? A bit of a challenge.

All that's left in the fruit bin is an apple.

One. All by its little lonesome in the drawer.

We have a freezer-top-fridge-bottom, so I seem to be looking down at the apple from the top of a steep hill.

I'm not in the mood for an apple. I want an orange. Something with some Vitamin C. Head cold here. I might have the apple for lunch, but not for breakfast. Not today.

Aha! I remember a bag of frozen strawberries in the freezer door. I keep the strawberries for smoothies. I reach for the bag, then hesitate.

Frozen strawberries will never be fresh ones. This is a fact.

Still... I grab the bag and read the instructions. "Thaw for 25 minutes at room temperature. Best eaten when ice crystals remain in the fruit." Makes sense. Frozen strawberries with no ice crystals are smoothie- or sundae-worthy. Eating alone? Not so much worthiness. I turn back to the bag.  "Grown in Peru."

Huh. We get out-of-season fresh strawberries from California, frozen ones from Peru. Whoever thinks we're living without global connections has not read a food label lately.

I start with the strawberries in a small bowl but quickly realize the berries will thaw unevenly. So I dump the berries on a plate and spread them out gently with a fork so each berry has its own thawing spot. "Thaw for 25 minutes..."  Not a good instruction for strawberries. On a plate. Thawing.

Eating frozen strawberries takes some patience.  With the tines of the fork, I gently tap the ice crust covering each berry until the crust lies on the plate, the knobby impressions from the berry dissolving as the ice melts. I'm thinking about the Peruvians picking strawberries, and all the people involved in the packaging, shipping, stocking and grocery check-outs. I'm grateful they are part of this strawberry chain.

I have to judge the thaw-rate of each berry and pick which one to eat next. The one just at the right point -- just enough ice crystals remaining for firm-ish texture, yet soft-enough to release that sweet, strawberry flavor. My attention is focused on my task. I'm present with my strawberries and my watchful-waiting.

When I choose my berry, it makes all the difference in the world to have a small dish of maple syrup on hand for dipping. I send an arrow-prayer up for my grandmother who taught me a thing or two about maple syrup.

Frozen strawberries will never be fresh ones. But breakfast just became a chance for a mindfulness meditation and a sweet treat. Seems like a good deal to me.

Have a wonderful day!