No, not the 1957 Ingmar Bergman film, but the tiniest little gems of fruit in my garden.
They hide, they're itty-bitty, and they're only tasty when they are completely scarlet verging on burgundy. They peak when they're so ripe that they're almost ready to drop off the stem, and yes, there's a metaphor there. Served with slightly melted vanilla ice cream and fresh mint leaves, they're unforgettably delicious.
Typically we harvest only a handful a season, but now there is a bumper crop, around the pond, on the path to the meditation deck, and underneath the palm tree. Finding them recalls our annual Easter egg hunt. Since we hide brightly painted champagne glasses so our grown-up guests can also enjoy the thrill of the chase, sometimes we find a lone, faded goblet in the grass.
You can pick a bunch of berries and marvel at their beauty, but curiously, they don't taste better en masse, and there's an allegory for you! Less is more in the wild strawberries department. One, whether plump or microscopic, is enough. What counts is the explosion of the sun-warmed, juicy essence on your tongue. Succulent, sweet, surprising. Take a moment and savor just one, and you know that the gods live in nature, and their gifts can make us whole.