Read by Matilda Longbottom

I gave it my all—because let me tell you, growing Cape gooseberries (physalis) in Scotland is no small feat. You don’t just toss seeds in the dirt and whistle while you wait. Oh, no. You start in January, planting those itty-bitty seeds in even itty-bittier pots on your windowsill. Then you wait… and wait. Nearly a month goes by before the seeds think, “Oh, fine, we’ll sprout!” And sprout they do, into the world’s most delicate, hesitant little seedlings.

From there, it’s a marathon of patience. You water them—a little here, a little there. You talk to them like they’re high-maintenance houseguests, begging them to make themselves at home. Two and a half months later, they’re finally ready for the next step in their adventure. But these babies don’t get to see the Scottish outdoors—heaven forbid. They’re tucked into the greenhouse, where it’s nice and warm. And that’s where the real battle begins: you versus the garden snails, those fat brown beasts that have a disturbingly keen appetite for Cape gooseberries.

By mid-Summer, though, the plants start putting on a show, flowering and stretching skyward until they hit the greenhouse roof. Little green lanterns pop up, each one holding a secret treasure—a single gooseberry waiting to turn a glorious golden yellow. It’s not the most bountiful crop—each fruit’s about the size of a cherry—but they’re like tiny pieces of edible sunshine. Exotic. Delicate. Gorgeous.

Fast-forward to mid-August, and our crop was looking pretty good. We’d already tasted a few of our early-ripened Cape gooseberries, or as my 2-year-old Benjy lovingly called them, “goobzies.” Kids and new foods can be a tricky combo, but Benjy? Oh, he was a goobzy fan. Enthusiastically so, as we were about to discover.

One sunny afternoon, my husband Robert strolled into the greenhouse for a quiet moment and a taste of sun-warmed fruit. But when he reached out for one of those perfectly ripened berries, he found… nothing. Just an empty husk.

The next one? Same deal. Empty. And the next. Each little papery carapace had been split open like a treasure chest already looted. Our precious goobzies were gone!

A quick scan of the damage revealed that all the berries below waist-height had vanished, and we didn’t need Sherlock Holmes to figure out the culprit. Someone small, sticky-fingered, and particularly fond of “goobzies” had been on a private picnic.

Yes, Benjy, our toddler bandit, had struck again. Most of our Cape gooseberry crop had been swiped by this pint-sized thief. And in Scotland, where Summer lasts about as long as a sneeze, we knew the unripe berries left on the higher branches wouldn’t make it before the cold set in.

Robert, bless him, was a little crestfallen—he had dreams of leisurely sharing these rare fruits with guests. But me? I couldn’t help but smile. Sure, I missed out on my share of homegrown fruit that Summer, but the image of baby Benjy toddling into the greenhouse, discovering his very own gooseberry goldmine? Eighteen years later, that memory’s still as sweet as any sun-ripened goobzy. ❖

About the Author: Fiona M Jones writes short, dark-themed fiction, nature-themed nonfiction and sometimes poetry. Her published work may be sampled from her website, Fiona M Jones