Part 1: Strawberry guilt
Guess what, kids? It’s JUNE! Which means it’s SUMMER! Doesn’t the world just instantly feel a bit better? Aren’t the cockles of your heart warmed as well as your body?
I’m sorry, that was weird.
Hattie and I are on holiday next week, eating seafood and soaking up the sun in Tenerife (or #winnerife as we like to call it. Because we’re winners. In Tenerife. And if you put them together then LOOK IT’S THE BEST WE COULD COME UP WITH.)
But before we leave, I have one more fruit to eat, and as discussed, it’s June now. And that means that strawberries are officially in season.
Why do people love strawberries so much? That’s the question I want to answer. Whenever summer rolls around, people can’t leave a supermarket without bulk buying punnets of strawberries like the apocalypse is coming. (And, to be fair, it is. But the strawberries won’t save you.)
Is it their enticing red colour? Their luxurious lady curves? People talk about strawberries like they’re made of crack, or diamonds, or chocolate. Whenever I tell people that I don’t eat fruit, their response is always “not even STRAWBERRIES?” like I have just said I don’t like puppies. They inspire the same outrage that I feel when I hear that people don’t like Creme eggs, or bacon, or Taylor Swift’s early country songs (“Not even I’d Lie?? SHE THINKS HE CAN SEE THROUGH EVERYTHING BUT HER HEART.”)
My dad once told me, in all seriousness, that God created the world in six days, and on the seventh day He made strawberries.
Anyway. For whatever deep-rooted, psychologically traumatised reason, they are the fruit I most want to love. There’s even a joke about it on my OK Cupid profile.
So here I am, and everything I’ve ever been told has led me to believe that when I eat these strawberries, my entire life will change for the better.
As I take a bite, the taste is fresh and familiar – even I’ve not managed to avoid the taste of strawberries my whole life – and I have to admit that I like it. The texture of the seeds isn’t like the horrible hairiness of raspberries or the weird fuzz of peaches. It’s quite enjoyable – probably because it doesn’t remind me of animals in any way.
Some of the strawberries were kind of squashy in parts, and although our other housemate assured me that it didn’t mean they were mouldy, I definitely didn’t like that. But overall I would declare them a success.
Which is good news, because otherwise my dad would probably never get over it. It’s okay, dad! You can be proud of me now! I’m finally normal!
Part 2: Damn right, it’s better than yours
That’s right – part two is about my milkshake. And it IS better than yours.
I used (as always) a BBC Good Food recipe for the quantities. There were only three ingredients this time so even I couldn’t mess anything up. (Although I did have to get Hattie to teach me how to use the blender. Again.)
Basically: Strawberries. Ice cream. Milk. Blend.
Honestly, this was so good. It was thick and sweet and frothy at the top. I wish all my fruit could be consumed in milkshake form. I bought a two-litre tub of ice cream for this post, and I will probably become one of those supermarket people bulk buying strawberry punnets until it’s all gone. And then one day another girl will see me looking deranged when they are all sold out during the apocalypse, and she will write her own blog post about it on bestdoomever.wordpress.com.
And that, dear readers, is the true circle of life.
Happy summer! xoxo