Who knew writing a blog would be such a commitment.
The point of wetschmertzed (or however it's meant not to be spellt) is to ponder a moment on whatever strikes me, in any given day, vis-a-vis nothing in particular, as good, bad or stupid.
But there's just so much stuff around that qualifies. I'm bewildered by the choice. I have consequently written nothing for months.
Typical.
But, shamed by the example of a colleague here at Fibb Porquian Croque, who started a blog yesterday and has already posted no fewer than TWO entries, I'm going to be more diligent, more prolific, more acerbic, curmudgeonly, enthusiastic, verbose or whatever it takes to churn out more entries.
Post for today: Strawberries.
These are GOOD, but I'm having trouble finding strawberries with the same sweet, fragrant deliciousness that characterised the strawbs of my youth. Is my palate jaded? are my expectations inflated? Am I shopping in the wrong refrigerated long-haul mass strawb market manipulating hypermarket? Possibly all of the above.
The best strawberries I ever had were in Helsinki. They were stunning. The quintessence of strawberriness. And the raspberries were similarly fine.
Who'd've thought.
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