For colleague Gunnar, holidays are a time to get up before the sun and hit the HIKING TRAIL for a fast light 5 miles before his coffee, if he even drinks coffee which is doubtful, and not only on holidays but any old morning before a full day of work. This time I ventured to join him. For a slow-moving organism, that meant planning the day before by laying out clothes and going to bed early, then hopping up before 6:00 for a cold bath and lymphatic massage and foot bandages and compression hose, getting dressed and having shoes and carry bag ready at the door.

Yay, all ready — half an hour early! So I curled up on the carpet with a Pimsleur language CD and learned some Italian until hike time.

We hit the trail for that fast light 5 miles. (Fast and light for him, clumping along for me.) Through the trees there were views like this one. Cropped out the family’s house. Kept the scenery.

Along the way we passed a strawberry tree, Arbutus unedo, national tree of Italy. There are impressive online descriptions of its many uses in Mediterranean cooking. (Usual disclaimer: For goodness sake do your own research. Don’t take nutritional advice from some language major.)

The fruits were ripe and falling all over the trail anyway, getting trampled. Soon they’ll be gone. So naturally I picked some for my carry bag and brought them home.

There I simmered them over lowest heat, mashing and cooking them down in their own juice. Here’s the cooked whole fruit mash. The light fruity fragrance was wonderful.

Tricky part: the fruits are sand balls. They’re sandpaper puffs of very fine grit seeds. So I added a little water, stirred them in a sieve, and strained them. Then I rinsed the strainer and bowl, and strained the fruits again, repeating that about a dozen times. I don’t know the effect of superfine grit on our digestion or plumbing, and don’t need to find out today. So I strained them very well and collected the rinsewater with the pulp to pour on the garden. That fruit cooked down to about four ounces of puree.

The slogan for truth in advertising would be “A pleasant subtle peachy-mango nectar if you are fine with rinsing residual superfine grit from your teeth and tongue and spitting in a garden bucket.”

I texted Angelina to let her know that for her Thanksgiving dinner tonight, I’m bringing her some “REAL Italian food.” She texted back a thumbs’ up. Whatever she’s expecting, it’s likely not this.

As you would expect from a guy named Gunnar, he’s a long distance type who can outpace me twice over. But today he was kind enough to interrupt his workout and stand around on the trail helping me pick fuzzy balls off a tree. Thanks, Gunnar!