Berries

The raspberries come away from the cane with almost no resistance.

The ripe ones seem to fall into the hand. Their colour is deep and their flesh so soft that a little pressure leaves red on the fingertips.

Redcurrants ask for something different.

I hold the stem between my fingers and gather the small translucent berries into a bowl, some still carrying a leaf or a piece of stalk with them.

By the time I return to the kitchen, there are several shades of red spread across the table.

This is how I know where we are in summer.

The season can be felt in what is ready to eat.

By August, the warmth has been with us for some time. Grasses are beginning to dry. The ground gives up its moisture more readily beneath the sun. Seed heads appear amongst flowers that were in full bloom only weeks ago.

Yet the berries are full of water.

Beneath their thin skins, there is juice, sweetness and sharpness.

I taste a raspberry before it reaches the bowl.

Warm from my hand, soft enough to disappear almost immediately on the tongue.

There is something satisfying about eating this way.

What grows around us seems to meet the season we are living through.

As the days remain warm and the earth becomes drier, I find myself drawn towards foods with freshness and moisture. Berries. Tomatoes. Cucumber. Leaves picked from the garden. Food that requires very little before it reaches the plate.

The body has its own way of noticing the year.

Appetite shifts.

Thirst changes.

A breakfast that felt right in winter can feel too heavy now.

In summer, I often soak oats overnight. By morning they have softened in the jar. I add yoghurt and the berries I have picked, crushing a few raspberries against the glass as I spoon them in.

The red runs into the white.

Some mornings there are redcurrants too, their sharpness cutting through the sweetness.

I have come to think of seasonal eating less as something to follow and more as something to feel.

To notice what is growing.

To taste what has changed.

To pay attention to what the body reaches for when the air is warm, or when the first cooler mornings eventually return.

The season enters us in these ordinary ways.

Through warmth on the skin.

Through water.

Through appetite.

Through the taste of a berry picked moments before it is eaten.

Soon there will be other things to gather.

The light will change. The mornings will cool. I will begin wanting different food.

But today, I carry a small bowl between the canes and pick what is ready.

A raspberry slips into my palm.

I eat it there.

Susanna Syassen