The days tumble together, crammed with late-night recipe tests, morning tastings, and trips to the bazaar for exotic ingredients like freshly-dried sumac. The obstacles are tangible - balancing butter and flour, salt and spice. Chopping carrots into a brunoise is like breathing. I wear the gray apron from morning until night, until the pots are finally washed, a cold glass of wine is poured and that new guitar comes out for a little waltz. The windows are open, and the night pours in - punctuated by gunning car engines and those mangy cats screwing downstairs.
The dessert for my next menu is strawberry shortcake. There are many ways to make this dish, but the constant is some form of pastry, a dollop of whipped cream and a handful of strawberries. I choose to make a buttermilk biscuit, a Southern staple, made by a Northern Yankee, a city boy. But the thing is, most of my childhood was spent on a pig farm in the middle of nowhere, and we ate strawberry shortcake almost every summer day (or at least that is how I remember it). The pastries were store-bought bright yellow rounds of sponge cake, that had an almost metallic taste but I scarfed them down like the world was about to end. I make mine with this buttermilk biscuit, because the biscuit is quite hard to make - layers of carefully massaged butter turn to steam, and the result is something like an accordion of magic dough that is topped with sugar that brûlées just a bit. It’s a little slice of heaven if you can pull it off.
I am working the ratios, and a digital scale is my constant companion. Everything is scribbled down in a new notebook, with sharp arrows and underlines. Another fresh batch comes from the oven and they look promising. V is standing next to me, dancing with anticipation. As soon as they are cool enough, she tears into one.
“Unbelievable.” She says, rolling her eyes.
“But just a little salty, right?” I ask, after trying one.
“Yes, but I don’t care.” She says over her shoulder, waltzing around.
Later, I whip some cream, splash in a little of the good vanilla and spoon on some strawberries that macerated in a bath of lemon and sugar, creating a rosy syrup.
“The biscuit is the ground.” V shouts.
“The whipped cream are the clouds!” She adds.
“The strawberries are the flowers – it’s a garden.” She explains, and forks into it.
❤️❤️❤️
Ok. Now I love strawberry shortcake even more!!!!❤️❤️❤️