My freezer beckoned me in the night. Frozen strawberries, blueberries, peaches and mangos had finally, slowly, organized a riot. A chilly protest against the cold. They were trapped, holding summer sun and the sugar of the sunlight, and they were exhausted by the effort. Games over, time to get out. They weren't to hold my frozen memories anymore.
The strawberries longed for heat, to feel the warmth that releases their alluring aroma. The rest of the crew felt a need to be anything but a promise holder, summer slowed and preserved. Out everyone, out. They rallied and I responded.
And so now my apartment smells of sweet, slow strawberry soup. The air hangs with this alliteration, the s's releasing off the strawberries, grabbing an S off the sugar and floating to every available corner. I sniff and sniff and smile. I think chilled strawberry soup is some sort of jam. I'll make it work.
The rest of the crew got cobbled, mixed together and baked with a biscuit-y top. The skeptics are still out with the reviews, as frozen mango does not keep it's sweet summer loving like a tiny-yet-might blueberry.
And so, with snow desperately clinging to my front garden and condensation meeting an icy end on my glass door, summer is vacationing indoors. The fruit beckoned, and I, their humble servant, listened.
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