Strawberries, ice cream and a fire

Fresh strawberries and ice cream. Heat on high. We happily ate our rare treat and remembered Florida, where we turned on the air conditioner to use the fireplace. Ridiculous, I know.

We still wonder why they build fireplaces in Florida. For years we mocked the whole idea. One day we decided to try it for a laugh, turned on the air, struck the match and lit the log. Gadoo, our elderly cat, sprawled inches from the flames, soaked up the heat and nearly singed her soft belly fur. We cuddled (farther back) in a comfy chair and fell asleep to Carlos Nakai playing Native American flute.

Surprisingly we don’t have a fireplace in cold, Northern UK. It’s June, and we still wear coats and gloves to go out. As I type, the wind is howling a chilly rain across our windows and the heat is on.

Once again we choose to deceive ourselves. Reminiscent of those glorious nights in front of our Florida fireplace, today we indulge—strawberries and ice cream with the heat on high.

I shan’t discuss what our punnet, in season, cost, which yielded a serving each, compared to an entire flat of strawberries bought fresh from the pickers by the roadside in Plant City, Florida. It is not a fair comparison. I won't go there.
(As Lauren on Catherine Tate famously says, “I’m above it. I’m not bovvered.”)

For those keenly interested in British strawberries, these came from Newby Farm in the Yorkshire Dales.