The title of this blog entry is a lie.
So, I ate Herbert. He was nicely reddened & had softened to the touch. It was his time & I knew that if I didn’t pluck him he would soon become over-ripe & his life would’ve been wasted. However, red though he was, ‘fruity’ is not the adjective I’d use to describe his essence.
I know you’re supposed to be proud of all your children; but truthfully, sometimes you get a dud. Herbert was a dud. Sure, his flavor hinted at strawberry, but when I eat an actual strawberry, there should be no hints–there should be: WOO-HA! THAT’S A STRAWBERRY. Herbert’s cry was more of a whimper to the tune of: uh, excuse me, sir, do you mind if I sort of taste like a strawberry.
I’m pretty sure growing strawberries on my fire-escape is going to be a fruitless endeavor (Ha! Fruitless…). But maybe Herbert was a stepping stone strawberry. Perhaps his struggles will inspire other strawberries to stand up in the face of rogue squirrels or to ripen in the bleakness of a Brooklyn breezeway. Only time will tell…