by Jessica Capelle

Created on: May 07, 2008

Just one bite from my plate, and it seems the diner swirls around me- the register merging with barstools and the chalkboard announcing the daily special. It's as if I'm channeling a silent film star swooning on cue just in front of the red velvet chaise. But unlike her, the object of my affection is not just what makes my knees weak, it is my method of revival. A single perfect raspberry has transported me to where the sights, smells, and sounds are that of an almost forgotten movie of my past.

The perfection of the berry sitting so lightly on my tongue is no surprise to me. However, with each burst of flavor that streams over my taste buds into my waiting throat, the scene around me becomes strange and disconnected. I feel as if I have learned to astral project into a long-forgotten scene; film left in the camera and a little warped and forgotten. All I sense is the berry: the bumpy texture that can sometimes feel just slightly rubbery, the little "hairs" that protrude at off angles and always tickle the roof of my mouth, the slightly bitter taste at first until the berry bursts open and reveals the jewels hiding in its depths.

I close my eyes tightly to cling to the memory: 8 years old and tending my grandmother's garden. I can smell the blue spruce trees that have made a natural fence for 100 years. I hear the sharp chirping of tiny sparrows that have taken up nest in the towering pear tree that provides shade to half of the garden. As usual, the wind carries the sickly sweet scent of slightly rotted pears toward us- try as we might, we can never pick them fast enough.

I run my hand over the asparagus, then over the leaves of the rhubarb, purposefully ignoring the zucchini. Poor zucchini- it is really the weed of my grandmother's garden. There is always so much that, creative though she is, she has run out of ways to sneak it into my food. Now she just cooks it by itself, almost as if she has accepted defeat and waved the white apron at it.

I finally reach my finish line- the best part of grandmother's outdoor sanctuary. I quickly plop down onto the soft earth and begin to greedily pluck the plump, ripened berries. I scoop them into my wicker basket that has been long lined in a faded, red-checkered cloth, threadbare in many spots. The berries seem to resist me, as if they know their doom waits beyond the back door. But I persist in claiming the prize for my hard work.

My basket brimming full and almost ready to spill over, I race towards the house and fling open the storm door. Amazing scents spill through the door to greet me- sauerbraten, german potato salad, fresh green beans. I realize what grandmother has planned for the berries: her raspberry kuchen. I can almost taste he slightly firm crust and the custard that melts in my mouth. All of it topped with heavenly treasures that are sprinkled across the top just before the oven takes over and caramelizes them so perfectly.

As incredible as I know the meal will be with that finale, anticipation gets the better of me. Loudly my mouth beg for just one taste- just one bite of the gorgeous berries that I labored so hard for. I gently scoop up a few of them and hold them as if they were diamonds, examining every discoloration and indentation. Deemed perfectly acceptable, I slowly bring one perfect berry to my lips. Suddenly, I am ripped out of my reverie. A little disoriented, I look up as the waitress asks if my fruit salad is satisfactory. As I bite into another perfect piece of nature's artwork, I wonder if it could ever be anything less than that.

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