by jemma margaret
For fraises fraîches you can’t do much better than a pot on the windowsill.
The wintery spring seemed to promise a crop of zero, and the taxi driver who helped transport my pot and luggage from one apartment to another surely had suspicions of what’s the point.
Ah, but who’s laughing now that there are five thoroughly red berries alive and within hand’s reach?
Not me, unfortunately, because the less than amusing punch line is that the one strawberry I’ve had so far was…okay. Very very cute, yes, but as I am an eater more than a painter of nature mort (or more literally, in this case, nature vivante), looks don’t count for much.
However, as this evening’s dessert proved, there is nothing a little (or a lot) of fat (crème fraîche) and a little sugar can’t fix.