Stuntman Strawberries

They lurk under shortcakes. They cloak themselves in chocolate. They stare up at you in the supermarket, screaming "Put me in your basket, take me home!" They try to convince you that you can't live without them, without their brilliant red costume and little green cap. They are the key to romance, decadent dessert, and fruit salad. They are . . . . Stuntman Strawberries!

Let's face it people, those things called strawberries in the supermarket are just giant, tasteless, albino-cored blobs masquerading as something much more desireable. Not only are they clever in their disguise, they also tend to be extremely talented.

When I lived in Vancouver I had the fortune of meeting a good friend, who doubled as a stuntman. In movies, the main actor is not the one you see flying through the air and hitting a wall with flames shooting out behind him. No, no, he is much too fragile and valuable for that. So, in his stead is a stuntman; a guy (or girl, of course) who generally resembles the actor, is tough, and trained to do crazy things and not be scared. The real actor would never survive being catapulted across the set and lit on fire; here is where the paths of actors, stuntmen, and strawberries cross.



The shiny red orbs we see in the supermarket, 2 for $5.00, are actually stuntmen. They look like a strawberry, they may even smell or taste faintly of a strawberry, but they are not the real thing. They have been plucked early, catapulted great distances, and endured many bumps and tumbles. Yet they remain perfect in their little plastic mobile homes. This is something a real strawberry could never survive.


Now don't go getting your back up about this. I, too, only recently discovered this hidden truth. I grew up eating stuntmen and have to admit I enjoyed them. And then I moved to the big apple. Ok back up a second. In all honesty, I was exposed to real strawberries as a child, thanks to my mom and her backyard garden. Though it is fair to say that I didn't gain a true appreciation of them until I was 25 and moved to New York City. It wasn't until I stumbled across the Union Square greenmarket on a hot July day and was intoxicated by a sweet perfume wafting on the breeze that I discovered what a real strawberry is.

A real strawberry is small, bright red throughout, soft to the point of being crushed by it's neighbor, and perhaps the sweetest natural thing you will ever taste. As you bite it, the thin skin gently bursts and juice fills your mouth. Your tastebuds scream "don't stop" and a little sigh of pleasure escapes your lips. Then you reach into the basket and grab another.

Fruit this good deserves to be the star. On most occasions I eat the better part of the basket before I even get on the train to go home. On a good day, the berries will travel the few minutes with me to Brooklyn and wind up as jewels adorning a bowl of granola or the swath of color across a dollop of thick greek yogurt. Once in a while though, dessert is in order.

In my opinion nothing frames a perfectly ripe berry quite as well as a custard or cream of sorts, with perhaps a bit of sponge cake thrown in on occasion. One of my favorite desserts of all time is the italian panna cotta, meaning cooked cream. It is basically cream, warmed, lightly sweetened, and set with a bit of gelatin.

The recipe I am including in this post is my twist on the version found in one of my favorite cookbooks, Sunday Suppers at Lucques, written by chef and co-owner of Lucques, Suzanne Goin. Though I have only eaten her food and briefly met her once, she is one of my mentors and icons in the world of food. In this version she includes a bit of creme fraiche, which lends a subtle tang that nicely compliments the sweetness of the berries.

Run to the nearest farmer's market, follow your nose, grab a spoon and let the good times roll.

Creme Fraiche Panna Cotta with Strawberries

yields 8 4-oz. servings

2 c. whole milk

1 1/4 oz. package unflavored gelatin

1 1/2 c. heavy cream

6 Tbsp. granulated sugar

1/2 c. plus 2 Tbsp. creme fraiche

1 1/2 pints fresh farmers market strawberries

In a small bowl place 1/2 c. of cold milk. Sprinkle gelatin over and stir to combine. In a medium sauce pan bring the cream, remaining 1 1/2 c. milk, and 5 Tbsp. sugar to a boil. Turn off the heat and allow to sit for a couple minutes. Whisk in your gelatin mixture and then the creme fraiche. Strain and divide among 8 4-oz. ramekins or pour into a large gratin dish if serving family style. Allow to cool to about room temperature then cover with plastic and refrigerate for at least 3 hours. A few minutes before serving, slice strawberries, and toss them with the remaining Tbsp. or so of sugar to taste.

If unmolding the panna cotta, run a hot knife around the edges or dip the bottom of the ramekin briefly in hot water to loosen, and invert it onto a chilled plate or platter. Serve with the strawberries and their juice.