03 Jun Strawberry & Mascarpone Gelato, and Some Life Lessons
When I went to pick up my son from his nursery called, I joke not, The Enchanted Garden, I noticed a collage taped to the window. It was of a blue gelato (the beloved Puffo, or Smurf flavour) with multicoloured sprinkles, dropped and puddling on the floor, cone pointing upwards like a tipsy wizard’s hat. Underneath was the caption: only through sadness can we know happiness.
Pretty profound stuff for two-year-olds.
My son is learning about emotions. He learns through gelato. He looks at a picture; a mouse is crying because his gelato has dropped on the floor. He sees the mouse is sad. The next page shows a fox sharing his gelato with the mouse. The mouse is happy! Sharing makes people happy, my son says, slowly, his brow furrowed in murky comprehension. Gelato makes people happy! He looks up at me, beaming, through Bambi-like lashes.
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Do you remember Petit Filous? Their pale lilac packaging, the satisfying snap as you broke off two, to eat together, their flimsy lids aloft. Licking the lid was always the best bit; the thickest, creamiest part of the yoghurt.
In my family, the most prized Petit Filous flavour was Strawberries & Cream. The rule went, if you ate one of those, you had to pay the penance and eat another that no one liked, like fruits of the forest, or – most hated – the apricot one.
With my mum, a lifelong Wine Gum fan, there was an equal penance for the red wine gum: two yellows for every red. At some point sweets companies cottoned on and started producing tubes of exclusively strawberry flavoured sweets (I think Fruitella?). Of course, it didn’t work, they didn’t sell. The novelty was but brief. Uninterrupted bliss is no fun, and we are no fools. Only through a yellow Wine Gum can you know the joy of a red one. And only through Fruits of the Forest can you know the unbridled joy of Strawberries and Cream.
Strawberries and cream will always be the most classic, the most complete, the most perfect combination. I thought about tinkering with it, and then I thought better. Instead I just amped up the creaminess. Mascarpone is a melodramatic version of cream: think cream, but more Italian.
It seems even toddlers know deep in their sticky hearts that there can be nothing happier than an ice cream, and nothing so tragic as it falling on the floor. But we need the sad puddles too. They are not only inevitable but necessary. Who wants a life of only strawberry sweets?
Serves 8
400g strawberries
1 tbsp sugar
1 lemon
150g mascarpone
250ml double cream
250ml milk
Half a vanilla pod (optional but I had one and a vanilla back-note is never not a good idea in strawberry ice cream)
6 egg yolks
150g sugar
A small pinch of salt
Method
Hull and halve the strawberries, and leave them in a bowl to macerate with the tablespoon full of sugar and the lemon juice.
Whisk the egg yolks with the 150g of sugar and pinch of salt until thick and moussey. Heat the cream and milk with the vanilla until just at a scald. Pour the milk mixture over the yolks in a steady stream, whisking constantly. Return the mixture to the saucepan and cook, over a low heat, stirring continuously with a spatula, until the custard has thickened to a double cream like consistency, and just coats the back of the spatula. Strain, discard the vanilla pod, and set aside to cool completely.
Blitz the strawberries with the mascarpone and cooled custard until completely smooth.
Churn in an ice cream machine.
Notes
You could also strain the finished mixture through a sieve to remove any evidence of seeds. I don’t bother.
