Don’t get me wrong here, I like strawberries. They’re red and tasty. Everything you could ask for in a small berry. I just don’t think I like them to the same degree as the Swedes.
Now, there’s nothing wrong with liking strawberries. They’re really a quite healthy fruit, I’m sure. Probably full of antioxidants. (Although they’re no blueberry — but we’re not here to compare.) I just don’t seem to need them in my life the way Swedes do.
In the summertime the Swedes go crazy. It’s a madness marked by blood red froth at the mouth, and a crazed look in the eye that tells you “I’m no cannibal, but I would seriously consider eating YOU!” Turns out this is just from a mouth full of whipped cream and strawberries, and that look they’re giving is directed at the cake. But still, it’s unnerving.
Strawberries are crack. This is the general opinion of the entire Swedish population. You buy it from strange foreign men bragging about the origin of the product. You buy it on street corners, and in the middle of the woods. Sometimes really ballsy dealers will sell outside your local grocery store.
It’s better than crack, though, because even the police endorse its use. Encourage even.
Children, young and old, scour the woods for wild strawberries. Collecting as many ripened berries as possible, and stringing the scrumptious beads on a long string of grass. For consumption at a later date. Or a later minute.
Don’t worry, I indulge in this Swedish custom. Even eat strawberries for breakfast.
Although. . .I’m unsure I will ever experience the child like glee that surely swells within the hearts of Swedes buying fresh strawberries from their trusted dealer. Maybe one day.