They are the first to show their bright little heads in spring and the last to bow down to the pervasiveness of winter. On the mountaintops of the alps and down the valleys of the Himalayas, there will inevitably be a strawberry patch of some kind. They hide their luscious brilliance under the shade of welcoming leaves shaped like hearts and dog paws, a friend. Bright and popping with flavor, they stand in contrast to their sharp and cool flavor like a summer breeze.

Giving as much as retreating, they reveal themselves slowly and only if you pay attention will you be able to grab one at its peak ripeness. Even in the small container in front of my door, the alpine strawberries I foster greet me often and gratefully with a droplet of juicy goodness. But I have to hunt for it, even in such a small space. I sift through the tangle of leaves and weigh whether today is the day for me to grab the berry or if tomorrow will be that peak delicious moment.

They are no longer inhibited by the winter cool air when they are integrated into a hydroponics system. Their short roots, vine structure and endless production strategy make strawberries the ideal candidates for this indoor alternative. My current goal is to build such a structure in my basement so that next winter I can enter a living, edible wonderland just below my floorboards. Then I can pick strawberries and taste summertime, escaping the grasp of the howling snowstorm outside my window.

My first experience with wine making was with strawberries. My junior year of high school alongside the wildly enthusiastic and passionate boyfriend I had at the time was a time to break out and rebel a bit. This rebellion was tinted fuchsia, mashed, and boiled with cups of sugar, sifted through sieves, and feeding yeast. It sat patiently and expectant brewing in the closet, bubbling all the while. We did all we could to stop it from bursting past its confine and all over the small, dim space. Once the bottles were boiled and cleaned in the bathtub, the wine was separated between liquid and pulp. And there we sat, still under the legal age limit, enjoying the most delicious alcoholic beverage I had tasted. Given my inexperience this might not say too much, but that act, and taste stays incredibly present in my memory. It was an act of self-made independence and the taste of empowerment.

The sweetest strawberries cannot be swayed from their gentleness and kind spirits. This makes them almost motherly, but uncontested like youth. They remind me of the teenage solidarity I found amongst my quirky, marginalized, and confused group of companions. How we took care of each other yet led our own wild explorations, bouncing between daily expectations and unconventional lives. Strawberries are sweet for me though they have the least amount of sugar of the berries. They are sweet like the cry of freedom at 5 in the morning when watching the sunrise having snuck out at three for a motorcycle ride. Sweet like dancing wildly in unearthed spaces with no conception of what tomorrow will bring, harboring a desperate trust that your friends will help you find your way to home; whatever that means.

Maybe this is why my favorite strawberries are not the store-bought bulbous ones contained in plastic barely able to breath. Instead, I prefer the alpine strawberry that sneaks stealthily across the ground in between other plants in the garden and offers small, almost bitter fruit, unless you managed to get a perfectly ripe one with the most intoxicating flavor. This strawberry holds back and makes its own path, and I only get to join in if I pay attention and join for the ride.