The leaves have trickles of water resting in perfect packs. No doubt there's just been a rain shower. Tiny strawberries line up above the earth in neat little rows. I want to pick and eat as I go but I hold back. Families, teenagers, young couples, they're all here. We stand in tandem admiring the foliage and fruit. There is space here, away from the homes and businesses built small and close at a time when no one thought Miami would be on the grid.
Strawberry Fields Forever
Knaus Berry Farm is no secret. The invariably long lines would have you believe they placed Homestead's DMV in the middle of the sparse plots of flat, green land. When you try a strawberry milkshake or cinnamon roll, its fame becomes clear with each morsel.
Raccoons & chilled pilsner
"Here you go my love." My sweetheart kisses me on the forehead as he brings over my pilsner. The weather is perfect for a chilled glass filled with something hoppy. In Florida, this is our version of the seasons changing, the telltale sign of being able to sit outside comfortably and wear a light jacket. Winter is here.
"Cheers." We say in unison marveling the forestry before us.
A raccoon walks past us hardly noticing our presence. The animals in Cauley Square Historic Village are used to humans by now. They seem to live together in a respectful harmony. Here both man and raccoon can sip beer and nibble of bagels, respectively.
The Village Chalet seems like the kind of place you'd call a joint. Tea lights, dated tea cups and doily table linens adorn the table tops.
James Dean thoughtfully stares at us from his side of the bar. There are no men, except for mine, just women engaged in passionate discourse and dressed up a little fancy. We hide ourselves in a corner so we could read out loud without bothering the other guests.
Schnebly Redland's Winery is a manufactured adult playground. Like most places in Homestead, it is seemingly placed in the center of empty acres. Have the bartender mix you beers and skip their wine. You're welcome.
BYOB & home cooked Peruvian
We are seated at a small table with a bottle of Delirium in a brown paper bag. The slender woman with a thick Hispanic accent takes our stash and pours it in two miniature boot glasses. She slides the glass towards us and we smile and cheers. The woman, we'd learn, is wife to the Master Chef.
Chefs On The Run is like coming to a friend's home for dinner. You are greeted by your hardy meal's maker, you are served generously by his family and you leave with a warm embrace and full belly.