I had my eye on them for weeks; inspecting the sprawling tangle of leaves each time I passed by. The fruit grew from tight green-white knobs in May, gradually plumping and softening, flushing red in the June sun, and finally reaching a startling ripe rosiness in the waning weeks of June. Now the strawberries were ready for harvest and I attacked them with gusto, staining my fingers fire engine red as I picked and ate and picked some more. Eventually, despite eating at least half of my pickings, I managed to resist temptation and cart a bagful home. In the kitchen I presented my hoard to Mother who lost no time in appropriating them and adding them to the contents of a bubbling cauldron on the stove.
“Strawberry jam,” Mum muttered as she stirred in a mound of sugar. I peered over the pot and inhaled. Then I reeled.
The steaming contents plastered the back of my hair to an already sweaty neck. A fan whirred monotonously nearby, Crackers the dog continued panting in the darkest corner of the kitchen. The heat and humidity were cloying, invasive, leaving you no choice but to surrender to their lethargic pull. In this weather you couldn’t do anything with speed. I watched as Mum stirred and stirred, dropping her spoon now and then to minister to an army of jam jars, ferreting in the cupboard for lids, counting them out, muttering to herself, and occasionally tripping over one of the dogs.
From my perch on the stool I stood looking into the pot of ruby colored lava. Gone were the other smells of summer—the dusty dried grasses, the wisteria and clover, the chlorine from the pool still coating my hair, the scent of horses and leather and salty sweat. Instead my nostrils were brimming with nothing but this dancing, heady sweetness of slowly melting berries . . . .
I have always been fascinated by the connection between smell and memory. Who has not been walking absently down the street one moment only to be jolted back in time the next by a distinctive smell? Perhaps it is the perfume your ex wore or the coffee your mom brewed. But whatever it is shoots you right back to another time and place more vividly and emotionally than any sound, sight, or wordy description. Smell is the most cunning and evocative of senses.
That jam my mum made last week sent me sailing back to the sticky Pennsylvania summers of my childhood. All that messy, chaotic abundance of relived experience assailed my being. And then it passed and I resurfaced in the cool drizzle of a June afternoon in the Northwest.
It was that vivid remembrance that rekindled my current obsession with strawberries. And, for the last week or so, I have had a voracious appetite for these emblems or summer. They are one of those edibles that resist the most zealous efforts of industrial agriculture. Yes, you may be able to buy strawberries in January, but they will be hard and anemic—mere shadows of their summer selves. The best specimens are found locally and for a fleeting season. They do not travel well and tend rather to disintegrate into a juicy mess within mile of the field. So my advice is to buy locally and gorge yourself silly while they last. Then wait until next year. Anticipation, as everyone knows, is half the fun.
While I love eating strawberries fresh with nothing but the tiniest sprinkle of sugar to coax out every last ounce of their sweetness, there is one recipe to which I return each year. It comes from my absolute favorite cookbook, Anne Willan’s From My Chateau Kitchen. It is a tart with a sweet crust and luscious almond filling that works not only with strawberries but as a canvas for many a summer sweet. Yet, as strawberries are the first berry, it is a special moment when this tart arrives at the table, piled with a glorious jumble of this sumptuous fruit.
Fresh Fruit Tart
Adapted from Anne Willan
Pâté Sucrée:
1 1/2 c. flour
1/2 tsp. salt
1/2 c. sugar
3 egg yolks
1 tsp. vanilla extract
7 tbsp. butter
Frangipane filling:
1/4 c. butter
1/3 c. sugar
1 egg
1/2 tsp. vanilla extract
1/2 c. ground almonds
Fruit topping:
3-4 c. sliced strawberries, other berries, or sliced stone fruit such as peaches, plums or a mixture or fruits.
Make the shell: Mix together flour, salt and sugar in a bowl. Make a well in the center. Pour egg yolks and vanilla into the well. Dice the butter into large cubes, place between two large sheets of wax paper and pound to soften a little. Add pounded better to the well and mix with the egg yolks and vanilla to form a paste. Slowly add in surrounding flour until it comes together into a soft dough. Work as quickly as possible and don’t over work the dough. Form into a ball, wrap in wax paper and chill in fridge for 1 hour.
Preheat the oven to 350F. Roll out dough and press into a tart dish. Poke a few holes in pastry with a fork to prevent air bubbles while cooking. Press wax paper on top of pastry and blind bake for about 12 minutes or until hardened and slightly golden.
Meanwhile make the filling: beat the butter until soft. Add the sugar and beat until creamy. Beat in the eggs, then mix in the vanilla and ground almonds. When tart is blind baked, pour filling into shell and return to the oven for another 12 minutes or so until browned and firmer. Remove from oven and let cool. Top the filling with prepared fruit just before serving.
No comments:
Post a Comment