My husband courted me with freshly picked ripe strawberries. Rising before 5 a.m. to pick 20 pounds of the shiny dark red fruit in the cool of a morning, he’d drive 120 miles to walk in just in time for breakfast. Two things were almost immediately obvious: first, it was time to learn to make jam, and second, I needed to marry this guy.
This week in our gardens we're picking:
Stacks of sandy-colored wooden barrels stood in a corner in a back room at Lincoln Peak Vineyard in New Haven, several sporting deep purple stains, suggestions of the wine that sat aging inside.
Until about eight years ago, said vineyard co-owner Chris Granstrom, this room held the checkout counter for the strawberries that grew on the 12 acres of farmland. Now, on the same land, wide, orderly rows of grape vines stretch back to the treeline.