I know Strawberries are in season somewhere in the world because everyone is selling them for two bucks a quart, the Mom and Pop grocery stores, the National chain grocery stores and even K-Mart. Yes, K-Mart. Following Tom Chino back and forth through his strawberry fields sampling perfectly ripened, peak-of-flavor berries hand selected by the Master Farmer himself as he awakened my palate to the distinct differences between the 17 different varieties of strawberries he was growing on his family's Rancho Santa Fe farm, The Vegetable Shop, I never imagined that someday I'd have to buy my fruit at a grocery store, let alone a chain department store known for discount sporting goods, toilet paper and blue light specials. The life of a Chef is a sheltered one at best.

I bought my food from farmers I either knew or knew of. I walked their fields. Heck, I even worked the fields at Robbie's Tropical Farm in Haiku, Maui back when I was running Café Kula at the Grand Wailea. Robbie supplied the restaurant with most of its produce. We went through seed catalogues together and picked out heirloom varieties of fruits and vegetables he was confident would thrive in the island's rich volcanic soil. Robbie loved experimenting with new crops. He thrived on the challenge of maintaining the integrity of his organic farms, on keeping his fields in full rotation and on choosing crops that nourished, rather than stripped the earth.

Robbie was fascinated by the nature of the different varieties of everything he grew and purposely planted a diverse selection of each fruit and vegetable. He grew everything from baby lettuces to tomatoes, eggplant, zucchini, potatoes, sweet potatoes, shelling beans, string beans, mangos, papayas, kiwi, pineapples, passionfruit, starfruit, citrus of all kinds including Meyer lemons, tangerines, blood oranges and Pomello and a whole lot more. Robbie even grew strawberries.

I wrote the daily changing menus for Café Kula based on whatever was ripe for harvest. Robbie and I spoke every night and sketched out the menus together. The weather, his crew and the state of his equipment all had a hand in what was for supper. Heavy rains meant smaller deliveries and wet produce that had to be received and "turned around" quickly. Everything had to be washed and dried and then stored in containers chosen for its unique ability to extend the life of the individual varieties of produce.

Lettuces were quickly washed; triple dried in salad spinners and then laid out on flour sack towels in a single row for a final air-drying. When all the lettuce leaves were void of obvious moisture, they were laid out on paper towels in single layers and then carefully rolled into half pound bundles and then stored in freezer weight zipper bags. Herbs were placed in vases of water and then covered with plastic bags. Tomatoes were washed, individually towel dried and arranged in a single layer on sheet pans lined with parchment paper. The pans of tomatoes shared space on rolling racks with similarly handled mangos, papaya and starfruit. Bananas, pineapples and sweet Maui onions (stored on the bottom racks) hitched a ride. The racks were stored in the back of the kitchen away from the heat of the fire. Preserving and then utilizing each and every ounce of everything delivered is paramount to a restaurant's success.

Throughout my years as a chef in California and Hawaii, on the rare occasions I cooked at home, I bought all of my produce from farmer's markets, specialty organic produce markets or from farmers and their family-member-helpers themselves right at their road side stands. I bought fresh bread (often still warm) from bakers I knew or knew of. I bought cheese and dairy from local, organic creameries. I knew the life of the chickens that laid my eggs. I lived in a culinary plastic bubble. And I took it for granted. I was a workaholic chef with access to the best of absolutely everything edible money could buy.

It never occurred to me that only a very small segment of the population had access to the quality food and produce I did. In fact, when I was sketching out my first cookbook, I listed the heirloom varieties of the produce called for in the recipes. Lucky for me, before I sent the pages off to my "real" editor, I sent them to my Mother, a highly educated, very talented, well read (especially on the subject of food) home cook. I could feel the virtual slap of her hand beating the life out of my culinary-superiority-complex all the way to Maui, "Snap out of it, Kathleen! No one has access to the amount and variety of organic, heirloom produce the California Raisins and Maui Wowie's do! When we can get our hands on organic produce, it's always more expensive than everything else and a lot of the time, it's been grossly mishandled and doesn't look or taste half as good as the non-organic, trucked in stuff."

No matter how many times my Mother told me organic and heirloom was impossible to get, I didn't believe her. Everyone I knew had access to everything I did. Until I hung up my toque and moved back to Michigan, the only people I knew were food purveyors, servers and other people who worked in sweltering kitchens 365 days a year for crappy wages and free food all dressed up in homely haberdashery uniquely designed to draw attention to food stains. Particularly wonderful were the wooden shoes.

If I had known then, what I know now, that I'd be buying produce and pet toiletries at the same store, I'm not sure if I would have traded in my culinary Life of Riley. But there I was last week on my way to buy cat litter at K-Mart when a display of strawberries stopped me in my tracks. There were rows and rows and stacks and stacks of what we've come to know here in the land-of-sparse-produce-pickings, as the quintessential, All American, strawberry.

They were the farthest from U-Pick-Em strawberries I've ever laid fruit-starved eyes on. They didn't permeate the kind of intoxicating strawberry blossom perfume that makes you want to hold a basket up to your face, close your eyes and adjust your breathing to deep and often for maximum pleasure. I picked up a dozen packages, turning them one by one over and over in my hands, inspecting them for imperfections. I wanted them to taste like Tom Chino raised them. I wanted them to be permanent-stain-juicy. I wanted them to be eat-them-all-at-once scrumptious.

I really wanted to buy those strawberries. But the culinary snob in me was not on board. I mean, who buys fruit at K-Mart? I went and got my cat litter and had a get-over-yourself Come-to-Jesus. I thought about the fact that my regular produce market is closing in August forever. Gas prices prohibit me from driving two towns over to frequent their flagship store. There will no longer be a one-stop-produce shop within driving distance to my house.

I have to deal with the reality that I must start trying produce from other sources. I considered that for now, I will have to purchase whatever local farmers are not offering from National chain stores. Period. For a California trained chef who takes a lot of pride in the fact that she won an award from the Hawaii State Senate for her promotion of local agriculture to Hawaii residents and in particular to school children, buying produce from chain stores is a big peach pit to swallow.

But I don't live in California or Hawaii anymore. I live in the Midwest and I'm proud of it. I swallowed my pride and went back to the display and put two quarts of strawberries in my cart. I walked over to the peaches and nectarines and bought three of each. I bought a hand of bananas and two navel oranges. In each case, the state of origin was the same as the fruit I've been buying lately from my regular produce market. And the prices were slightly less.

I took the fruit home and washed the peaches and berries. I laid them out on a kitchen towel to dry and then immediately picked up what appeared to be the very best strawberry in the bunch. After turning it over in my hands for a final inspection and deeming it perfect, I took a big bite and began a mental forensic review.

It wasn't drip-to-my elbows juicy. It didn't have that creamy, summer-is-almost-here texture that inspires you to drag out all of your dessert cookbooks in search of the best strawberry ice cream recipe. But it was good. And sweet. And pleasant. And one wasn't enough. I imagined myself slicing up a few strawberries for breakfast and tossing them with cherry vanilla yogurt and meusli and enjoying every bite. I pictured the berries tossed into a spinach salad and turned into a tropical fruit salsa served alongside grilled chicken or slices of medium rare flank or hanger steak.

So how good were they? Eat-eight-in-a-row-standing-at-the-sink good. At 45 calories a cup, they're a great snack. Sweet enough to satisfy a sweet tooth and substantial enough to keep me satisfied and happy in between meal times. Strawberries contain a range of beneficial nutrients, including vitamin C, folate, fiber and antioxidants. Ounce for ounce, strawberries have more Vitamin C than citrus fruit and in fact, a one cup serving, about 8 medium strawberries, contains 140% of the recommended allowance of Vitamin C. "Researchers around the world are also recognizing that the phytonutrients in strawberries—including ellagitannins and quercetin—may have considerable preventative effects on cardiovascular disease, cancer and cognitive decline." "According to the American Cancer Society, foods rich in Vitamin C may lower the risk of cancers of the gastrointestinal tract."

Yep, I'll be working K-Mart strawberries into my diet until the local U-Pick-Em farms announce the start of our strawberry season. In the meantime, I'll be more aware of how fortunate I am to have the freedom and the means to buy enough food to eat every day and to have a kitchen to cook it in. With my food dollars and my voice, I will continue to show my support to all of the Midwest and Michigan farmers dedicated to raising local and organic, sustainable agriculture.


Kathleen Daelemans is in no way affiliated with or paid by the K-Mart Corporation or any of its affiliates.

kd@chefkathleen.com