The sound was obscene. A crack of seeds, a rush of juice. It ran down my chin before I could catch it. My first instinct was to reach for a napkin—to clean up, to apologize for the mess. But I stopped.

For a long time, I ate strawberries wrong.

Because no one is.

There is a specific kind of magic in biting into a strawberry at the peak of its season.

Not a nibble. A bite.

Not the pale, seedy, refrigerated ghosts they sell in plastic clamshells in December. I’m talking about the real thing. The one you find tucked under a green canopy of leaves, still warm from the sun. It is so red it looks like a stop sign. It is so fragrant you can smell it before your lips even touch the skin.