Beatrice
There’s a specific kind of joy that comes from the farmers market in late spring. It’s the moment you spot them: pint after pint of jewel-toned strawberries, piled high and promising pure, unadulterated sweetness. You buy a whole flat, of course. The aroma fills your car on the ride home, a fragrant cloud of sunshine and earth.
Lucas
There’s a specific kind of baker’s heartbreak that I know all too well. You’ve spent hours baking the perfect vanilla sponge. You’ve whipped up a batch of pristine, snow-white Swiss meringue buttercream. You’ve sliced the most beautiful, ruby-red strawberries and arranged them in a stunning pattern on top. The cake is a masterpiece. You place it in the fridge, ready for the big reveal at a family gathering in a few hours.
Lucas
It’s a scene I know all too well. You’ve baked the perfect vanilla bean cake. The Swiss meringue buttercream is silky, smooth, and flawlessly applied. For the final touch, you arrange a beautiful crown of ruby-red, freshly sliced strawberries on top. It looks like a magazine cover. You place it in the fridge, beaming with pride, ready for the party in a few hours.