Stay and Eat

Strawberries / a ni

The transformation of spring into summer cannot be felt by looking at a calendar, but here on the hill it can be smelled. The spring nights have a distinctive fragrance, of dampened earth mostly. The beginning of summer is scented with honeysuckle and wild roses.

Spring rains and the fronts that usher them in are called "the winters," cold spells that coincide with the flowers of white-blossomed plants; sarvis, linen britches, dogwood, blackberry. Blackberry winter has passed and the nights have taken on the warmth of summer.

Warm darkness seems thicker. Last night the hillside was enveloped in velvet blackness, penetrated only by a sliver of new moon in the western sky, and a spangle of stars directly overhead. Here and there the lightning bugs pulsed, as though they'd swallowed the thunderstorms that gave birth to all the inky haze I stood in the midst of. What a feeling of paradox! The air, thick with moisture, was so exactly a comfortable warmth that the boundary between inside and outside dissolved in the mist, and a sweet darkness permeated me to the core.

A darkness light and sweet with honeysuckle - the whole hillside festooned is with it.

The sounds of the night are not yet the raucous rasps and swirling drones of the katydids and glass crickets. The night musicians play daintily still, a delicate lace of cricketing. Down at the pond the bullfrogs are trying out their basses with brief solos, preparing for the full funk of summer when the air will throb with mating dances.

This is the sort of night good for sleeping out in the hayfield, with a lover. I'm glad to know that! I remember waking up tangled in the comfort of a sleeping embrace, eased of being separate, the scent of the sun steaming heavy dew from the new mown hay all round us, in a round nest of only each other, as warm and brown as two rabbits - our eyes opening and peering quietly into the mysterious familiar wonder of it all. And being able to linger.

Back in the kitchen, it would be such a pleasure to make breakfast for him, to match the metaphysical surfeit of love with coffee and biscuits. Buttered biscuits with strawberry jam!

Naturalist William Bartram wrote, on his journey into Cherokee territory, of riding through fields of wild strawberries until the horse's hocks were stained red with juice! It's hard to imagine finding enough today to make a batch of jam. Even a single berry is a rare find.

I have heard tell that the First Man and First Woman had a disagreement. No surprise, eh? And according to women, no doubt, this disagreement had to do with a certain lack of sensitivity, compounded with an innate but unfortunately uncorrected stubborness of first man's nature. Men, on the other hand, if they speak among themselves at all about such things, whisper that the disagreement arose out of a greviously wounded pride due to a total lack of appreciation.
Whatever the cause, first woman left, walking briskly over the mountains to anywhere else.

First Man started to miss First Woman, eventually, and started out after her. But she had such a head start and determined stride that First Man was unable to catch up. In desperation he called out for help from the original fire, and not as if, but truly by magic, canes of raspberries sprang up along the trail.

First Woman was a forager to the core and she could not resist pausing to try a few of the raspberries, which were totally new to her. But her anger soon returned and she continued on her way, determined to put First Man far behind her, and out of her head completely.

Seeing her become ever smaller in the distance, First Man called out again for help. This time it was blackberries that sprang up along the trail, and again First Woman paused to test the flavor, but only for a minute or two, then a sudden wave of irritation at First Man surged through her again and she strode onward with renewed vigor.

First Man saw her fine figure vanishing into the blue distance and this time his heart truly began to break in contemplation of life spent forever alone. (For she was the only woman at that time on earth.) In despair he cried out for help again, and this time it was strawberries that appeared, beneath their dainty pretty leaves, growing all along First Woman's trail. She stopped and put one of the red berries on her tongue, and tasted strawberry for the very first time. Oh! It was so wonderful!

She began to pick the berries, and when she had enough, she turned around and went back to share them with her man.

"Strawberries in the larder; harmony in the home."

The homiest of strawberry deserts, in my book, is Cebah's Strawberry

Shortcake. It won't require a complete recipe; just refer back to the instructions for biscuit dough, and make it a little shorter by increasing the amount of shortening... maybe a couple of tablespoons. This is an instance where the lard can be replaced with butter to good effect.

Roll the dough out into a rough oval a half-inch thick, and place it on a lightly greased baking sheet. Sprinkle the top liberally with sugar, andbake it at 450 until it is golden brown. When it's cool enough to move, place it on a platter with some room to spare around the edges.

While the shortcake is baking, crush about 4 cups of strawberries with your hands, and sweeten them to taste. That instruction means what it says. In a recipe like this one, which simply converges three preparations into the finished desert, each part should be absolutely scrumptuous on its own. With that in mind, do the sweetening so precisely that you wouldn't mind eating the whole bowl of strawberries as is. If you have enough experience to intuit then do it, if you don't; add a little, taste and add more until it's perfect.

Pastry making takes a very fine edge. Give the strawberries some time to macerate in their own juices, then poke a few holes in the shortcake with a fork and pour three quarters of them on. Let it soak for at least a quarter hour.

As the strawberries and shortcake combine their virtues, whip a couple of cups of heavy cream, (a chilled bowl helps!) until just before soft peaks, add a teaspoon of vanilla and two or three tablespoons of sugar. If the cream is dull, and if you bought it in a supermarket chances are it will be, you might add a drop or two of Angostura bitters. Finish the whipping to form soft peaks. Hard whipped cream has the texture of sheep's wool in your mouth. Cease whipping before that happens.

To serve, cut the shortcake into three-inch chunks, refresh the berries with a dash of the reserve, and pile on the whipped cream. What could be better?

What could be better, for some, is this dessert chilled overnight before whipping its cream, until it is sodden, but, somehow, even more utterly delicious.

(Perhaps not better, but stiff competition, is this dessert prepared with cooked and sweetened rhubarb, alone or in any combination with strawberries.)

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