Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Every summer, I am surprised when I have the first raspberry of the season. I am taken back immediately to the raspberry patch on the side of the house at my grandparents home on Quail Road in Osterville, MA, on Cape Cod. I am standing there with my grandfather, and there is a very good chance I'm tasting the first raspberry I ever had, sweet and warm off the vine. And every year I think, will this strong sense memory fade? Will I someday pop a raspberry in my mouth and NOT be transported to the humid August air, the salty breeze off Nantucket Sound? 22 years after this happened, at age 28, I think not. I think it will surprise me each and every year, and I am so, so, so grateful for it.