Berry-Best Pound Cake

If you look to the far right and read this blog's mission, you'll see that juicy, local strawberries from the Northwest are called out specifically. Part of my goal in moving from the Midwest to Seattle was to educate my husband Dara about "real" strawberries, which he had never eaten.

Mind you, I'm not opposed to the Driscoll version of a strawberry at the supermarket; large and pretty and protected in plastic, it has its place throughout the year. And strawberries from the Midwest farmers markets -- well, they're fine, I suppose. But Oregon and Washington strawberries are completely different. They're small, red throughout, and can barely contain all their juice and flavor. They're also delicate -- you have to pick them and eat them in just a couple of days. And for the best varieties, the season is brief.

When I was growing up, my family honored the fleeting Northwest strawberry season by devouring a June dinner of strawberry shortcake and nothing else. It was one of my sister's and my favorite days of the year.

This summer I pictured myself making all kinds of local strawberry treats to the delight of Dara and friends. How about a shortcake in which the sweet biscuits contain crisp bits of bacon, and the cream is sweetened with maple syrup? How about freezer jam with a hint of lavender or lemon verbena? A fresh, open-faced strawberry pie is a must, with a shortbread crust and a creamy, honey-scented custard to secure the upside-down strawberries. There's ice cream, of course -- just pure cream with eggs, sugar and muddled berries. And juice, finely strained to flavor and color a fresh, sparkly cocktail garnished with a lime wedge.

Well, we ended up having a big old strawberry snafu this year. The Strawberry Snafu of 2010. It was worth it, though. Let me explain.

On Friday, June 18, my parents from southwest Washington called to alert us that this year's Hood strawberries were in. Hood is one of the very best varieties. We knew that since we live about three hours north of my parents, the Hoods would be ready in our neck of the woods in a week or two. Nice!

Knowing how excited we were about the season, my parents generously offered to bring us some of their Hoods the next day. We arranged a Saturday morning parking lot pick-up in Olympia, about 60 miles south of Seattle. It would be like a drug deal, except with strawberries and free brunch.

The afternoon before the deal went down, I shook myself out of my third nap of the week. What was wrong with me? I couldn't stop sleeping these days.

I went to the computer, looking up the restaurant menu for the Kingfish Cafe. I had been excited all week for a Southern dinner with our friends Haley and Liam, but now, fried chicken and gumbo sounded like the least appealing foods in the world.

I sat down in front of the open toilet for a few minutes.

Hmm. No, I thought. It couldn't be. No way. That would be crazy. Ha, that would be really crazy.

Taking the story back a few months: Dara and I had tried to have a baby for four years. We had gone to Chicago's best fertility clinic and done all we could, including two in-vitro procedures. I had taken so many drugs to regulate all the things that were wrong with me...to ensure I ovulated, to thicken my uterine lining, to produce more eggs. Our doctor had ultimately said, "I think we're looking at an egg quality issue." Disheartened, we decided to take a break from trying so hard. We figured we'd pursue another in-vitro procedure sometime, and maybe adoption. These seemed like more tasks for my to-do list. I felt old, dried up, and honestly so, so sad.

Soon after, the opportunity to move to Seattle arose, and it seemed like a perfect time to relax and not think about it...to just have fun for now.

But there I was on the bathroom floor, counting back days and shaking my head, tears in my eyes and a smirk on my face. No way.

I took two pregnancy tests. Positive, and positive. Less than two months in Seattle, and here I was, staring at the digital word I had begun to doubt I would ever see. Is this a magic city or something? I called Dara and told him. Then I made a doctor's appointment. They said I was likely already seven weeks pregnant. We felt foggy, like we were scared to be too excited yet.

Fast forward to the Saturday morning strawberry drug deal. We wrapped one of the tests like a present and gave it to my dad for Father's Day. Seeing my parents' reaction -- the confusion, then the dawn of understanding, then the pure joy -- were moments I'll never forget.

Back home in Seattle, we spread the berries out on the kitchen counter. Dara said, "OK, what should we do now?"

"I don't know. I'm exhausted and I have to go barf."

I slept the rest of the afternoon. Dara bought some pectin and we made some half-ass jam that was too sweet, then some half-ass ice cream that wasn't creamy enough. On Sunday we washed and hulled the rest of the berries and tossed them in the freezer mere seconds before they molded. I wanted to barf the whole time.

Two weeks later, we tried again -- and again, the berries sat on the counter for too long. This time they actually did start to mold, and I wanted no involvement with them.

Fortunately, raspberries, blueberries, blackberries and marionberries have treated me much better this year. And I know that strawberries and I will get along better next year. But anyway. Now it's time for an awesome recipe to reward you for reading the story of why my baby will be named Strawberry. Just kidding.

One of our favorite ways to eat any kind of berry is with pound cake. This recipe is adapted from a 1988 issue of my mom's beloved and now defunct Americana magazine. It's truly the best, with a beautiful cracking crust, a smooth, golden crumb and a rich flavor of butter with lemon and vanilla and mace.

BUTTERMILK POUND CAKE

Makes one 10-inch cake

1 cup butter

2 1/2 cups sugar

4 large eggs

3 cups flour

1/4 teaspoon kosher salt

1/2 teaspoon baking soda

1 cup buttermilk

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

1 teaspoon grated lemon zest

1/2 teaspoon mace

Preheat oven to 325 F. Grease and lightly flour a 10-inch tube pan. Cream the butter and gradually add sugar, beating until well-blended. Add eggs one at a time, beating after each addition. Combine the flour and salt. Dissolve the soda in the buttermilk; add it to the batter alternately with the flour mixture, beginning and ending with the flour. Stir in vanilla, lemon zest and mace. Pour into prepared pan and bake for 60-70 minutes or until a cake tester comes out clean. Cool the cake in the pan for 10 minutes, then turn it out and cool it completely on a wire rack. Serve with fresh somewhat muddled berries, sweetened if necessary.