Lemongrass-Strawberry Shortcakes (Revisited)

A few days ago it was the blog’s first birthday! I can’t believe how fast that went. 60-some recipes in and going strong (or, some days, just going at least); it’s been fun, stressful, a learning experience, and a great way to connect with tons of different people—in other words, I love it. My very first recipe posted here was Lemongrass Strawberry Shortcakes. My favorite way to make them is the simplest: macerate some sliced strawberries with a bit of sugar, briefly, and spoon into glasses filled with cubed pound cake, pressing to encourage it to soak up some of the red juices. A big, high-gloss mound of whipped cream, infused with a lemongrass simple syrup, dolloped over top—it’s pure summer nirvana. So, to belatedly celebrate my baby’s first birthday I wanted to repost the recipe that started it all. It’s got some new pictures—this time the strawberries are served over some buttermilk scones that I made as a way to use up some leftover buttermilk—and a few tweaks to the post itself, but given the current season I couldn’t help but share again.

♦♦♦

Dearest Summer,

Strawberries are synonymous with summer. It’s easy to see why, too; their shape and scarlet hue look like little hearts ready to burst—what’s not to love?! When the perfect specimen from a perfect plant is perfectly ripe they are sweet as candy and ready to burst with syrupy juice, but also have the slightest tartness to them—not sour, just slightly tart. They are easily the most adored and popular berry around. When we enter summer months you don’t need to look that hard for strawberry festivals or for them to start piling up at farmers’ markets. Our affinity towards them is nothing new, though. Shakespeare wrote in Henry V, “The strawberry grows underneath the nettle/ And wholesome berries thrive and ripen best/ Neighbored by fruit of baser quality” and as far back as the mid-1800’s people would throw strawberry shortcake parties to usher in the warmer months. They certainly take center stage come summer–ironic, being that botanically they’re an accessory fruit.

Unfortunately, these days we could interpret Shakespeare as meaning that the nettle is the superior fruit, ripening best near the inferior strawberry (I say this jokingly… the only nettle that I can think of that bears fruit is horsenettle and it’s poisonous). They can be like tomatoes, in a way; you either get a good one or a bad one and there is often no in between, and our summers are still consumed with adoration for both. Often times the strawberries we get are either mealy or rock-hard, soft in a waterlogged sort of way or totally unyielding, harshly sour or void of flavor. This year, for about 2 weeks, I was able to buy strawberries from the grocery store that were so perfect in their sweetness that they almost tasted synthetic. Now we’re back to donning ruby red accessories that, though they catch the light from a summer sun so well, they are far from a genuine gem, although they’re probably just as hard.

Disappointing and heresy to our nostalgia it may be, a batch of lackluster fruits is not the end of the world. As long as they are not totally hard and chalky and have at least the slightest lingering strawberry flavor and a drop or two of juice to give there are ways to remedy them. This is where they’re not like a tomato; a bad tomato is useless, but a bad strawberry is like a project boyfriend—“I can change him”. I’m not sure when it originated or even where, though suspicions are obvious, but there’s an almost neoclassic enthusiasm about strawberries with balsamic. There’s no real mystery there; balsamic is less acidic and much sweeter than other vinegars, (due to its aging process) a likeliness to the balance of a perfect strawberry, but with notes of fresh fig and dried fruits. Its pairing is another linkage to tomatoes, though I can’t say I’m a fan of tomatoes and balsamic but it sure is popular. Either splash a bit of a good, aged balsamic over some chopped strawberries with a little sugar and let it sit at room temperature to get the juices flowing, or reduce some balsamic in a small saucepan over low heat until its thick like honey and pour over some berries, fortified with sugar (don’t use anything too aged or expensive here, as cooking it looses some of the finer notes that justify a steeper price tag). Simply mixing some berries with a bit of sugar, splash of pomegranate juice and a pinch of very finely ground black pepper actually brings out their sweet and sharp flavors and gives them an interesting little spike, perhaps a method to distract from less than ideal produce. Stewing or roasting the fruit is also a surefire way to improve on them, too. Oh, and macerated strawberries with basil—c’mon! Really, what can’t be improved upon with garden-fresh basil?! (a lot, I’m sure, but I choose to live in ignorance)

And you can’t talk about strawberries without talking about shortcakes, too. The dessert that inspired those festive parties way back when can still do so today. Sure, they seem a little kitschy, maybe even a little too typical or safe, but there’s a level of indulgence of good strawberry shortcake that reaches truly hedonistic status. Now, according to a raggedy copy of my grandma’s Fannie Farmer Boston Cooking School Cookbook (1965), shortcake “is always made with biscuit dough, not cake, and is served with unsweetened heavy cream, un-whipped” and I’d say that’s a pretty traditional definition, shortcake being so termed based upon the shortening used in it. Admittedly, the way I make these shortcakes does not fit within this sacramental guidelines—semantics, I say. It’s the way I prefer to make strawberry shortcakes, not least because its easy, but mostly because I love the sweet + lemongrass + strawberry combination. Strawberries go so well with mint, and not just as a mere pitiful garnish to them; the sweetness of fresh mint leaves brings out that of the strawberries, but also gives a foil to their flavor by way of green, green grassiness. If your strawberries are sweet enough to cause cavities, lemon zest and, minimally, juice helps bring out some subtle and necessary tartness without being too intrusive. Sure, you can use mint and lemon in these but lemongrass is where it’s at for me. Its aromatic, herbal, and sour, but without acidity; all the wonderful qualities of mint and lemon, and none of their intrusive ones.

A few stalks of lemongrass are simmered and steeped in a simple syrup, infusing it with the lemongrass flavor. Then, as not to waste anything, I remove the lemongrass and plunk it into a bowl of cream to let it infuse even more flavor into that.

Then it’s as simple as chopping or slicing about a pound of strawberries (I say “about” because I’ll inevitably eat a fair amount) and stirring in a little sugar—anywhere from 30 minutes to 3 hours before you plan on eating. The exact amount of sugar is hard to say because it depends on the sweetness of the berries but for this amount I’d guess anywhere from 1 to 4 tablespoons is sufficient. Leave these at room temperature and stir every so often if you can.

In the original post I mentioned serving this in a glass, a nod to the dessert shooter fad, with store-bought pound cake taking place of the usual shortcake biscuit. It’s one of my favorite grocery store bakery items, specifically for recipes like this. Sure, you could make your own but with the freshness of the berries, their juices soaking in a bit, and the aromatic, mellow, citrusy waft of the lemongrass cream, you really won’t notice the difference between homemade and store bought cake. This go around though, I had some buttermilk that needed to be used so I went with buttermilk scones—sorry Fannie Farmer, no shortening here.

Just before serving, pour the cream into a large bowl, through a sieve to remove the lemongrass. Discard the stalks. Whip the cream until it begins to thicken–just before soft peaks would form. Beat in some of the lemongrass syrup. Odds are you won’t need all of the syrup but don’t worry–there’s a use for it!* Beat the cream until soft to medium peaks form and distribute the high-gloss cream evenly atop each shortcake.

All that’s left to do is enjoy as absolutely as possible. These, like summer, never seem to last quite long enough.

Don’t forget to follow me on BLOGLOVIN’ for more summer recipes!

Lemongrass-Strawberry Shortcake

Yum

Print Recipe

Glossy, rubied summer strawberries with a lemongrass infused whipped cream are the perfect blue print for a Strawberry Shortcake like no other. Whether you use shortcakes, scones, or pound cake this will complete your summer!

• CoursesDessert

Servings	Prep Time
6	10 minutes

Cook Time	Passive Time
5 - 7 minutes	3 - 24 hours

Servings Prep Time 6 10 minutes

Cook Time Passive Time 5 - 7 minutes 3 - 24 hours

Lemongrass-Strawberry Shortcake Yum Print Recipe Glossy, rubied summer strawberries with a lemongrass infused whipped cream are the perfect blue print for a Strawberry Shortcake like no other. Whether you use shortcakes, scones, or pound cake this will complete your summer! CoursesDessert Servings Prep Time 6 10 minutes Cook Time Passive Time 5 - 7 minutes 3 - 24 hours Servings Prep Time 6 10 minutes Cook Time Passive Time 5 - 7 minutes 3 - 24 hours

Ingredients

• 1 pound strawberries chopped or sliced
• 1 - 4 tablespoons sugar depending on the sweetness of the strawberries
• 2 cups heavy cream
• 6 buttermilk scones (recipe below), ***OR***
• 1 pound cake store-bought, about 10oz

For the Lemongrass Syrup

• 2 stalks lemongrass about 6" each
• 1/2 cup sugar
• 1/4 cup water

Servings:

Instructions

1. Split the lemongrass stalks in half lengthwise and either crush them with the flat of a knife or grab each end with either hand and wiggle around to break the fibers up a little (kind of like cracking a glow-stick). Mix the lemongrass, sugar, and water in a small saucepan to combine and place over medium heat.
2. Once the syrup starts to boil, turn the heat down to low and simmer for about 5 minutes. Shut off the heat and leave the lemongrass to steep in the syrup until it's completely cooled. Strain the syrup into a jug and set in the fridge to completely chill.
3. (Optional) Plunk the lemongrass stalks into a liquid measuring cup with the heavy cream. Stash in the fridge for at least 3 hours to infuse more lemongrass flavor into the cream.
4. Anywhere from 20 minutes to 3 hours before you're planning on serving these, finely chop the strawberries and put them into a large mixing bowl. Sprinkle over some sugar and stir to combine before setting aside at room temperature, but covered, until you're ready. The exact amount of sugar needed is hard to say because it depends on how sweet the strawberries already are and/or how sweet you like them.
5. If you're using the pound cake method, cube the pound cake and distribute evenly among 6 glasses and, after the strawberries have had their time macerating, spoon them and their sauce in each glass as well. Lightly press down on them to encourage the pound cake to drink up some of the sweet sauce. If you're using scones, simply split them and spoon the strawberries over them.
6. If the cream has been steeping with lemongrass, strain it through a fine mesh sieve into a large bowl. Whisk the cream until you have soft to medium peaks. Pour in some of the lemongrass syrup and whip a little more just to combine. You won't need all the syrup, but feel free to add as much or as little as you like (I find 4 - 5 tablespoons is ideal). Decant this over the shortcakes and serve.

Recipe Notes

• The lemongrass syrup can be made up to a week in advance.
• For any leftover lemongrass syrup make a soda! Pour about 2 tablespoons, give or take, into a glass. Stir in the juice of about half a lemon, fill it with ice, and pour over carbonated water. So good.
• The pound cake and macerated strawberries can be assembled up to an hour in advance. I wouldn't assemble the strawberries and scones in advance, though.
• Don't whip the cream in advance! It can deflate, especially once the lemongrass syrup is added, and once that happens there's no bringing it back!

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