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Electric lollipops

Today we dished out our first strawberries and cream of the season—cause for major celebration at our house. Now, lest you get the idea that I’m either entirely too easily amused, or have never heard of a supermarket, let me explain. The Tailor and I do our best to eat locally, organically, and seasonally—and we’re lucky to live in a part of the world with lots of like-minded people who do the same. I think, however, that we tend to fall in the, uh, hardcore variety of seasonal foodies. I’m sure this topic will crop up again in the future, so I’ll save you the spiel. For now, let’s just say that if Mount Rainier happened to go ka-blooey some winter, cutting T-Town off from any supply routes into the city, we could live on our stored food for a good three or four months before we started beadily eyeing the squirrel population. Sure, it’s probably a little nutty, but what it boils down to is the fact that we only eat asparagus in the few short weeks every year that it’s available locally—and we don’t buy any produce between November and April. So for me that first beautiful mouthful of fresh, perfect, tiny strawberries is better than any birthday present (though I admit to occasionally breaking down and impulse-buying California berries two months early when my will is weak).

All of this is to say that living seasonally certainly teaches one to learn the cycles of the year (so as not to miss the asparagus, you know), and to appreciate the best parts of every season, however brief they may be. So while I was utterly failing to save the rest of the berries for later, I reflected on how thankful I am for the lovely, prolonged spring we enjoy ’round these parts (in the Great White North, it passes in a pink flash). And then I remembered that I owe you some tulip photos.

(See how my brain works? I’m a walking non-sequitur.)

Long before we moved here, I’d heard stories of the Skagit Valley Tulip Festival, of the magic of standing in a sweeping vista of rainbow blooms, seeming to end only where the Cascades began.

The stories left out one important point, however: the light. As soon as the sun cleared the clouds, every flower burst into a neon glow, filling the valley with unreal color.

You know, for a place that claims to be grey so much of the time, my digital color correcting skills are getting awfully rusty.