There was a large patch of gravel in front of the rickety, boarded-up roadside stand, a plywood structure smaller than my closet that it seemed would fall apart if you looked at it closely. I drove by it each day going to and from work when I lived in California and never gave it much thought – just part of the landscape. Then spring arrived and one day I noticed the stand was open. There was no sign indicating what they sold, but there was someone in the shadows of the hut, so I pulled in to see what they had.

Inside there was an old oriental man somewhere between 40 and 104 years old and a woman somewhere between 18 and 40. In front of them were trays of strawberries. Small berries, the size of the end of my thumb, perfectly ruby red and ripe. And now that I could look, I noticed that the field behind the stand – perhaps two acres in size – was filled with strawberry plants. I bought a container and, back in the car and headed home, ate a berry, then another, then a third. They were the sweetest, most intense strawberries I'd ever had in my life. Unbelievably good. I had plain strawberries for dinner that night. But the next day I bought more berries and made strawberry shortcake. Recipe here...