One of the gifts of summer was finding wild strawberry plants growing in the lane at the back of my house. They existed and thrived on the thin soil accumulated over rough concrete and tarmac, clinging on to existence.
I’d love to tell you how they fizzed with flavour and how their sweetness exploded in my mouth. I’d love to tell you how I was instantly transported to another time and place, dramatic and exotic, name-dropping people and happenings, because of the taste. But I’m not going to go all seven volumes of Proust on you.
They were a bit tasteless and their texture was soft and mushy.
Sometimes selective breeding has its advantages.
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