Irresistible

The sign said “homegrown strawberries.” I had to stop. They weren’t quite homegrown, but close — from only two counties away.

The strawberries ranged from the size of a fingernail to the size of a finger joint. I was reminded of the strawberries I used to get from a Vietnamese family in California. One day there was a woman there ahead of me buying two flats to take back for her family and some friends in San Francisco. She said she bought some everytime she was in Sacramento because she couldn’t find any as good in SF.

These local berries weren’t quite as sweet as those in Sacramento, but they were as potently suffused with the essence of strawberriness. Bright, succulent little rubies of Spring. They were literally irresistible. I bought two pints.

When I got home I ate a pint. Didn’t mean to. Couldn’t stop.

Having taken the edge off of my desire, I capped the remaining berries and sliced the larger ones in half. I added a couple of spoons full of sugar and a shot of Disaronna and let them macerate for a few hours.

I had a box of puff pastry shells in the freezer, so I thawed and baked a couple of them. I didn’t have any heavy cream, but I did have some mascarpone that I thinned with some light cream and another shot of Disaronna.

Warm pastry; brilliant juice; cool, supple cream; and berries so good that, as my friend Susanne would say, they’d make you slap your mother.

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