Mia and I went to Business School in San Francisco together. Quickly, we found our mutual love for good food, rooftop brunches and a glass of wine (or two, or three…) Reading this story made me feel the magical romance of a fairytale. Mia’s descriptive, sensorial style of writing about picking berries barefoot made my feet tingle and mouth water. This is the closest I’ll get to Norway this summer, we often underestimate the power of words. 

When I think of my childhood, my favorite recurring memory is long summer afternoons spent picking berries in my parents’ garden in Norway. Our closest neighbor was the forest with its tall birch trees. The only thing you could hear was birds singing, grasshoppers chirping and the occasional squirrel bouncing from branch to branch hustling nuts for hibernation.

Looking Back

I would spend hours in the garden, barefoot on the dewy grass, picking raspberries, redcurrants, blackcurrants and gooseberries. Usually, I brought my dog to assist; although, for the most part, he was busy hunting down the best sticks to chew on. I filled the buckets to the brim with radiant reds, blacks, purples and greens. I carried them up the stone staircase leading up to our kitchen. Here, I would spend another few hours removing the stalks of the redcurrant and carefully picking out any snails or other bugs who had been caught in the crossfire. It was somewhat of a meditative activity, although I didn’t know the word for it at the time. 

After a rinse under cold water in the kitchen sink, my mum would be ready with a big pot. We poured in most of the berries (the rest she would save, so we could have them fresh with vanilla ice cream after dinner the same night). We sprinkled in a little bit of sugar and a little squeeze of lemon juice; set the stove on ‘’1’’ and waited. And waited. And waited, as the smell of the sweet berries reducing over low heat would spread throughout the house. Then we waited a little bit longer, as the smell lured all members of the family into the kitchen for a taste of the fresh jam.

girl on grass with bowl of red berries

Picking berries barefoot with shoes in my parents’ garden, Norway, 2013.

Looking Ahead

Living busy lives, running from one thing to the next, it is hard being connected to our food in this way. Besides, most landlords won’t let you grow berry bushes in your apartment, at least not in NYC. We have become so far removed from what goes on our plates that we rarely stop to think how it gets there. When was the last time you reflected on how your bacon became bacon? Or how your pineapple made it to Wholefoods in the middle of winter?

To me, the smell and taste of jam made from my parents’ garden is the best thing in the world. It sends me straight back to those summer afternoons spent under birch trees with my dog, not giving a damn that walking barefoot on wet grass would inevitably give me cold. And although I cannot do the same right now, it’s a good sentiment for reflection. 

Written by Mia Holmsen and edited by Jashan Sippy.

‘Food, the Feeling of Home’: A series of stories exploring nostalgia, the power of food, our memories and stories of ‘home’. Want to share your story? Send it to us at info@sugarandspace.in