Standing with my Georgian brother, Nika, in the middle of a
neighborhood bebo’s strawberry field, picking strawberries barefoot in the mud,
as a toothless woman empties a handful of the red fruit into my palms,
surrounded by the Caucus Mountains and peach orchards while the clouds allow a
few raindrops to escape, and I know I’m experiencing yet another one of those
moments. It’s a moment when I look around and all I can say is “Wow.”
I can’t speak for the rest of Georgia, but in Kakheti,
strawberry season has begun. I pass buckets of strawberries for sale on my way
to school; the refrigerator is full of various forms of the fruit. The
backgammon table has been replaced by marshutkas and tables full of fresh
strawberries, and tired women walk past my house every night on their way home
from the fields.
For our most recent holiday – Victory Day – my family and I
climbed into the jeep, which lacks many parts one would think are necessary to
drive, and headed to boloze (“at the
end”). Turning into a field that only one with the experience of generations
could know, we follow a path that has been covered in a week’s worth of rain
and mud. However, the jeep can drive in anything, and we make it through
without hesitation. Jumping out of the back and grabbing a straw hat, I follow
my family to our six long rows of grapes, under which we find the strawberries.
I took a basket and began the tedious process of picking
strawberries. I quickly realized that the experiences I have had in this area
are completely different when you are in your own fields. Nika quickly
explained that I should eat the best strawberries and put the leftovers into my
basket.
Although this principle significant decreased the number of strawberries
we picked, it was worth it.
Eventually, we decided it was time to leave as the rain threatened
to spill out over the mountains. Trudging through the mud to get back to the
jeep, we piled everything in the back and made it home, where my Georgian
mother and I took off strawberry tops and filled jars with strawberries and
sugar. She talked excitedly about strawberry cake, juice, and cream, and while the
strawberries and sugar cooled in the refrigerator, we compared American and
Georgian strawberry preparations.
I don’t know how long strawberry season lasts, and I don’t know if
I’ll get to go back to the fields before I leave. For now, though, I’ll content
myself with the bowl of cold strawberries and homemade cream that my Georgian
mother just handed me, and if more neighbors offer me handfuls of strawberries
from the fields, I will gladly blow off the excess dirt, shoo away the ants,
and let my fingers turn red.
