She opened the luscious gardening catalog on her friends’ kitchen table. She poured over every beautiful photo, all of which were very tempting, but became completely animated when she saw them: gooseberry bushes. She spent the rest of the visit daydreaming about growing gooseberry bushes in her tiny yard. It was January, the absolute dead of winter, and one of the coldest days of the year. And her yard was a wreck. But all she could feel was the midsummer sun on her shoulders. All she could taste was the tart pucker of gooseberry on her lips.
She remembered the gooseberry bushes that grew just under the kitchen window at the back of her grandmother’s house. Her grandma made gooseberry jams to spread on freshly made potato bread. Her grandma also made warm gooseberry pies to eat with salty churned ice cream and set out fresh bowls of gooseberries for breakfast, the sourness cut with thick sweet cream from the cows milked the previous day. Of course, she also picked sun-kissed gooseberries straight from the bushes and popped them into her mouth, sharp tartness bursting forward on her tongue.
She knew exactly where she was going to plant her gooseberry bushes in the spring.