My love of strawberries is a legacy from my Dad. He was the kind of inveterate gardener that gets fulfilment from fighting the odds. Whether this was a result of his having been in the army or just his indomitable nature, I’m not sure. Whatever he planted, there was always the likelihood that it would die from some unidentified disorder or if a productive plant, would never bear fruit in any edible form. When it came to strawberries the opposing forces were many, ranging from the elements to slugs, snails, the dog, the chooks and pet rabbits. The strawberry harvests as a result were never much more than meagre, but what berries were salvaged were his pride and joy and our special treat. In those days they were often the only ones we got, as this was in the days before supermarkets and year-round availability. We thought of them as exotic fruit, exotic in this case because they were rare. 

These days strawberries are no longer thought of as exotic, or even special. They’re everywhere, all the time. I’ve actually become jaded about them, to the point where when served a piece of cake or dessert garnished with a strawberry, I push it disdainfully aside. Poor old strawberries have become as ubiquitous as carrots and about as exciting.

If there’s such a thing as the perfect strawberry, most people would agree it should be a deep uniform red, ranging in size from that of a largish cherry to a small plum, firm, juicy, sweet and leave on the tongue an undisputable flavour of strawberry. The strawberries I buy aren’t like this at all. Many are artificially cultivated to be huge, some as big as apples, and while they might be red there’s a significant portion around the hull or calix (the leafy bit) and the tip that’s pale yellow or even white. According to Mackenzie Filson on the website the kitchn, the uniform redness of a strawberry is an indication of how juicy and sweet it will be. Supermarket and even specialty green-grocer offerings these days are either watery or dry, unripe or mushy and squashed and what’s worse taste of nothing.

There is one variety of strawberry however that I’ve never tasted which is reputed to be the crème de la crème. This is the fraise des bois (or wood or forest strawberry) which is descended from the native wild strawberry. According to Modern Farmer, these strawberries are a world away from the dull specimens we’ve come to expect. They’re far sweeter, richer, juicier and have an intense flavour. European myths suggest this strawberry symbolises fertility and love and associate it with goddesses such as Venus and Aphrodite. Wikipedia tells us the plant’s botanical name is Fragaria vesca and it’s a member of the rose family (as are all strawberries). It’s also known as “woodland strawberry”, “Alpine strawberry” and various other names. This variety grows wild in the right conditions but can also be cultivated.

The website Gardening Know How describes them as minuscule in size (rarely bigger than 1.5cm in length), very delicate, easily squished and therefore not at all amenable to transportation.

But they also agree their taste is “incredible”. Because of their intense flavour they’re ideal for turning into jams, sauces and liqueurs. I’m not much of a jam eater, because while I love the taste I’m always worried about the vast amount of sugar it contains. That said, there can be few afternoon teas more scrumptious than scones, strawberry jam and cream. Strawberry sauce would be delectable poured over icecream, or peaches or even slurped from the jar. 

Stawberry Liqueur (or crème de fraises) which astonishingly, considering my long years of sampling various alcoholic offerings, I’ve never tried, would be heaven. There’s a De Kuyper Wild Strawberry Liqueur which is claimed to be great in things like Strawberry Daiquiri.

The website Cocktailogy describes Strawberry Liqueur as “a sweet fruit-based alcohol with vibrant red hue, rich strawberry flavour and smooth texture”.

Or you can make your own. On the website “An Italian in My Kitchen”, Rosemary Molloy has a recipe for Strawberry Liqueur using vodka, which would be a fun way to use up a glut of wild strawberries if you were lucky enough to have such a thing.

Of course, the nutritional dangers of eating jam pale in comparison to those of chugging down liqueurs of any variety, not only because of the lashings of sugar but the alcohol as well. It’s fortunate that with liqueurs you only need indulge in a small amount to quench the thirst.  

What sparked my interest in wild strawberries (besides nostalgia about my Dad’s gardening days) was reading that Alice Toklas grew them in the garden she created at Bilignin (see my post on Alice Among the Gourmands). Whenever she and Gertrude Stein sojourned at Bilignin, Alice would go out first thing in the morning to gather strawberries so Gertrude could enjoy them for breakfast. Given the small size of the berries, what we can assume must have begun as a devotional task would have ended as something of an ordeal. In her cookbook Alice herself admits “it took me an hour to gather a small basket for Gertrude Stein’s breakfast”. And it’s not as if these berries would be hanging at a convenient height. Gathering them would require constant bending and straightening or else crawling on hands and knees. Aged in her fifties at this time, Alice was no lissom girl, however fit she may have been. Later, she tells us guests were told that if they wanted strawberries for breakfast too, they’d have to pick their own. Only Gertrude merited the special strawberry picking service, it seems. For which one would hope she was grateful, although I suspect she would have seen it as nothing more than her due as chatelaine.

While there are a few photos of the Bilignin house, terrace and surrounds, in all my copious research on Alice and Gertrude and their summer home at Bilignin, I’ve never come across any photos of Alice’s vegetable garden. We just have to use our imagination.

Below images of the house and garden at Bilignin taken from originals archived in Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library.

There’s little to indicate Gertrude helped with the gardening in any substantial way but, being Gertrude, was ready with advice which seems to have been more discouraging than the reverse. In Alice’s description in the cookbook of packing up and returning to Paris at the end of the season, she says:

“[Gertrude] came out into the denuded wet cold garden and, looking at the number of baskets and crates, asked if they were all being sent to Paris, that if they were the expressage would ruin us. She thought that there were enough vegetables for an institution and reminded me that our household consisted of three people.”

And this from “What is Remembered” where Alice recalls falling off a packing case she’d mounted to try and reach string beans suspended on a trellis:

“Gertrude Stein considered me too adventuresome and said, fewer vegetables would leave us still with enough variety”.

Don’t you hate that? Helpful advice that feels like a slap in the face with a wet dishcloth.