The Strawberry Caipirinha

Rio de Janeiro

When you think of English strawberries, what recipes spring to mind? Pimms? Strawberries and cream? Strawberry jam?

We’re currently in the throes of strawberry season in England, which I celebrated on Sunday by stocking up at my local PYO in Horsforth. And whilst all the above are strawberry-classics for a very good reason, my punnet of beautifully fresh strawberries was crying out for something different. Well, that and the fact that it was the day of the Wimbledon Men’s final, which was enough to shred the nerves of even the most fair-weather of tennis fans. Something a little stronger than strawberry jam was called for…

After three nail-biting sets were rewarded in the sweetest of ways, a strong, strawberry-based toast to Murray’s success was a must. But what?

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Celebrating the English strawberry season

        

Turquoise, cloudless skies. Intense, sweltering heat. The lingering smoky aroma of a million barbecues. Simultaneous euphoric screams across the UK as Andy Murray is crowned Wimbledon Champion.

This weekend may have been one big ‘pinch-me’ moment, but it was a staunch reminder of how bloody FANTASTIC British Summer can be. We may not be blessed with a Wimbledon CHAMPION every year (well done, Murray!), but amongst the endless days of gloomy downpours and overcast skies, there are British Summer mainstays that we should celebrate. Canalside picnics, countryside saunters, newborn chicks. Beneath a canopy of searing sunshine, many of the makings of a brilliant Summer can be found right here on our little island.

Canalside picnic, swans and signets

Enjoying the best of British Summer in Rodley this weekend!

The same can most certainly be said about British produce. It’s no secret that Britain is a sanctuary for fine seasonal produce, and there’s nothing that epitomises the British Summer quite so much as the English strawberry. On this most perfect of British Summer weekends, I headed to my local PYO field to stock up on a bounty of red berry plunder. Located in the same field where I’d discovered freshly picked asparagus to-die-for just weeks before, the adjacent field had now become a honeypot for local strawberry-lovers. Dozens of figures huddled over uniform green rows, scouring the foliage for the plumpest and reddest berries. The sweet scent of strawberries flooded our senses, blazing sun rays beat down on us, and the sky was that hue of blue usually only spied on postcards. It was perfect.

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