Strawberries Unplugged

Here's how these strawberries ended up on my ice cream.

On my way home from up north this weekend, my aunt sent me on a little adventure to pick up a cheap flat of delicious strawberries. She called them Amish strawberries, and I couldn't help but to visualize little strawberries in black hats and suspenders growing solemnly in a horse-plowed field. Not to worry. The strawberries were unadorned, but they were indeed grown by Amish farmers, which means one must go to "Amish country" to get them.

With U2's Joshua Tree as my anthem, I floated over the rolling hills of this beautiful farmland, passing a yellow road sign depicting a horse and buggy. Soon after, over the hill in front of me came a real live farmer sitting tall atop one.

What an odd intersection. Me, driving like a bat of hell trying to get a good deal on some fruit and escape back to the city, and him, journeying purposefully through his homeland, within which he is firmly planted because he consciously chose to live a modest and hard-working life .

I slowed down a little.

When I found the farm, I saw that there was another customer at the stand. A woman. As I waited in the car for her to finish, I checked myself in the mirror to make sure I didn't look too...whorish, I guess. I caught two young girls in bonnets peeking out from where they sat on wooden boxes beside the little produce stand, and I was glad I wasn't wearing makeup. I tucked my bra strap deeper under my sleeve and headed up the drive. As I approached, the woman who was at the stand turned to leave. Her lips were painted up like a Cupie doll and she sported a sequin-encrusted American flag tank top. I felt a little less self-conscious.

It was an awkward transaction between me and the Amish man. First of all, I thought my aunt said it was $15 dollars for the flat, so after I told them that I had a flat of strawberries held for Sharon, I asked, "Is it 15?"

He shook his head. "It's 16."

Great. Now the Amish man thought I was trying to lowball him.

I counted out 16 dollars from my wallet, glad that I had a ten, a five, and a one. Simple and crisp. He took the money and scooped up the flat, pausing as if to wait for me. I thought maybe he planned to take the strawberries to my car for me. I turned to lead. But then I balked. What if he was just trying to hand me the large box and I, the entitled, arrogant city snob, appeared as though I expected servitude?

I reached out for the box.

"Can you get it?" he asked, betraying nothing but polite respect.

"Oh yeah, I can get it." I said. "Thank you!"

I took the box and walked back to the car. I was pretty sure that now he was thinking I was a blasphemous feminist.

After I loaded the berries carefully into the car, I pulled away slowly, so as not to kick up too much dust as I drove off. Why did I care so much what this man thought of me? The truth is that I had formed some pretty strong assumptions about him and his way of life. So, why was I so afraid he had done the same about me?

The important thing is we can find a common ground. He's got berries, I like jam. Who cares what we think of each other? We both got something out of the encounter.

The berries were beautiful--crimson and juicy. A little on the tart side though. If it were me, I personally would have waited for them to get a tiny bit more ripe before I picked.

I hope he doesn't take offense to that if he ever reads this.