Alpine Strawberries

Last spring, Forrest completed the long and arduous task of clearing out an overgrown forsythia bush. When we first moved into our house nearly sixteen years ago, the property along the road was filled with a beautiful and healthy forsythia. One of my first memories as a new mother was telling people to turn at the house with the wall of yellow flowers alongside it. Over the next decade, the forsythia held out against an onslaught of ivy and invasive blackberries. It would still bloom, but I struggled against the thorny vines. We would do what we could, but with a swiftly growing family, time was limited.

It's not so limited any more, so Forrest set to work. He pulled out piles of vines and chopped them into pieces for our own little hügelkultur experiment. The forsythia got most of the land, but off to the side, we buried the composting vines under a covering of cardboard and a heap of topsoil. On top of that, we began to place rocks.

Our yard has never been short of rocks, and eventually, we’d gathered enough to build a rockery. One afternoon, Forrest and I sat outside and placed them all in our aspiring rock garden. All that was left was to plant something in it.

I got to work researching what would grow in a spot we were unlikely to water or fertilize. What plants like living in dry, poor soil, out in the sun with little space to expand? The answer was resounding: alpine species. The ground cover that dots the hills of Austria and Switzerland. These species are often extremely hardy, drought tolerant, and good at finding a niche.

So, in March, we started some alpine strawberries and creeping thyme in a tray in our kitchen. Usually plans are ready to go out in less than a month. Eight weeks later, spring had fully sprung and it was time for them to go out, whether or not they wanted to. I had fifty plants, each the size of a quarter. Forrest and I set them out on a sunny May morning, gave them a good watering, and promptly forgot about them.

It wasn’t until August that I remembered to check on them. You’ll imagine my surprise when not only did those little plants survive, but in fact held a dozen of the tiniest, most delicious berries you could ever taste! And they haven’t stopped. Not through our smoky September or rainy October. They’re still producing to this day.

Even with fifty plants, I never get more than a handful of berries. They’re small, fingertip sized, and picking them has none of the satisfaction of harvesting baskets of tomatoes or shovelfuls of potatoes. And certainly nothing beats the productivity of zucchini. These strawberries are for snacking. For picking a few when I’m out for a walk. A nice treat when we arrive home after a long day.

And it’s that, in particular, that makes those little alpine berries so special. They pack all the flavor into a small punch, leaving you always wanting more. And more will always come. Just not today. I have to wait until tomorrow, until the next walk, and hope that this isn’t yet the end of the season.

And when the season does end, which it inevitably will, I will have nothing but gratitude for the plants that grow where nothing but weeds would, and turned what was once a thorny mess into one of the best moments of my day.