Strawberries are in season at the moment. A friend of mine went picking last week and brought home a bounty.
I sit in the kitchen with my paring knife and hull the berries into a big glass bowl, putting about twenty of the most perfect looking ones to the side. Placing sugar and water in a saucepan I make a syrupy mixture, stirring until the crystals dissolve, watching it bubble lightly then leaving it to one side to cool.
Humming to myself I think about what else it needs. The fruit is so gorgeous at this time of year but it needs something...I have some tahitian limes that are destined for the sorbet but it needs something...Thankfully this is a staged recipe and I can leisurely ponder the ingredients with no adverse outcomes. While I am contemplating the missing dimension to the sorbet I heat some chocolate and dip the reserved berries, leaving the chocolate to harden.
I love the laziness of the day, rolling over on itself, wandering, pondering, thinking about food and fucking. My two favorite things. Collecting herbs for dinner I notice my mint. It is a little sad after the cold and only just starting to get its first flush of real new spring growth but the winter means smaller leaves with a much fuller flavour. I pick a tight handful. This is what I have been looking for!
Back inside I pull out my mortar and pestle. I have three actually, this one is dedicated to sweet things. The other two are for curries and savory spices and are employed depending on quantity of ingredients. I have a beautiful little hand made japanese one, too. It is made just for ginger and horseradish and sits unused but very much loved. It is palm sized and almost serrated on the inside with a tiny wooden pestle. Hung by its leather thonging, it watches over me as I work. In my work corner I have two such objects, functional and beautiful but which serve no real purpose in my cooking. Both are treasured, one from each of my grandmothers.
I wash the mint, spin it dry and throw it in with a small handful of sugar. As I pound the scent intensifies, the leaves grow darker, the sugar grating into the mint. Pausing for a moment I peel some zest away from a lime, the oily aroma clinging to my already fragrant fingers. I am just about to throw it in to the pestle but think better of it and put it to the side. The mint and sugar are locked in a feud, each trying to exert his own individuality in the confines of my bowl, trying to drown out the other. The sugar biting into the tenderness of the mint, the oil from the mint permeating the sugar, dissolving it slightly. The sounds of the fray lessen and bit by bit they unify into a fine, pale green powder with occasional glimpses of a of dark green speck of mint. Now they have surrendered to each other. Now they are something new.
One of my favorite desserts is a platter filled with big chunks of fresh pineapple, sprinkled with mint-sugar. Simplicity. Perfection.
I squeeze the limes by hand over the sugar and stir, the acid easily dissolving the tiny granules. It looks like a pale cordial. The berries go into the blender and I add the minty/limy mix, pulsing it until it is smooth. At this point I get rather torn as I love a beautiful silky sorbet but I do so love the wholeness of leaving the puree unsieved. I decide that since I have gone this far that the decadence in a perfectly smooth sorbet outweighs my delight in finding the occasional tiny piece of fruit.
I hum as I push it through the sieve and it falls in thick plops into the bowl. The colour is rich and red, not like the pinkyness of raspberries. The syrup is still not cool enough so I busy myself with other things.
The phone rings. It is Sir. Thankfully I am home by myself. Stretched out on the bed, one foot on the bed head I am cumming again at his word. I quiver and ripple, my body contorting itself, bending and writhing at his say so. I am twisted into knots, wound up and unwound. Breathless, it is finally finished. I am permitted to stop. I have the desperate desire to keep going forever and the physical exhaustion pressing me to go no further. He is timing me, counting my cums. His goal for me is twenty-five times in five minutes. He informs me that I came nineteen times in five-minutes and twenty-three seconds. My stomach aches and burns. I can feel every muscle screaming at me.
I lie still for a while, listening to the nothing in my house. My eyes closed, my body tired, my mind not considering sleep as an option in the near future. Eventually I rouse myself and move lazily to the kitchen. I bite into one of the strawberries, cracking through the chocolate, juice filling my mouth. I eat while pulling the frozen basin out and placing it on the bench, pouring in the syrup, the strawberry puree and sprinkling over the tiny pieces of lime zest. I switch it on, watching it swirl for a while and slowly gather myself for a shower.
On my return I am rewarded with a pretty, red, undulating convergence of flavours. The tiny vibrant flecks of green look divine.
I scoop a spoonful while the machine still whirs and smile to myself as it melts into my tongue; drifting off, floating away in both body and mind.