Scottish Strawberries
A smell I didn't know was nostalgic, a place in time I didn't know I was nostalgic for.
Tom came back from the market with a punnet of strawberries and like always, I peered at the top to see where they’d come from. Small, shiny beauties from Scotland.
In the village where I grew up (okay, one of the villages where I grew up), there was an unofficial strawberry fortnight. During the summer holidays, or just before them, I can’t quite remember, the paper shop where I ended up working for a little while would put out pallets full of local strawberries on the produce table outside—and they would go within the hour. They smelled like the end of school and the sweet syrup of melted ice poles—like strawberry-flavoured things, like laces and milkshakes and jam and campinos—not like the fruits I knew. Those promised sweetness and tasted sour. These strawberries were joyful, and folks carried four punnets at a time, away home to make meringues, or jams, or to sit on the front garden popping one after another into their mouths. When I worked at the shop, I’d write down orders for them on the corner of a paper bag.
Today when I saw the tartan-printed label on our market-bought strawbs, my heart did a little flip. I opened the punnet, knowing that I expected some sort of fanfare. The smell took me away almost instantly to a patchwork of summer memories: beach swimming at St Cyrus, house parties in the middle of nowhere, tracing Edwardian schoolboy carvings at Edzell Castle, cycling too fast over gravel tracks, walking out, out, out into the woods and fields of the Howe o the Mearns. The white river behind the blue door. The end of High School.
The shop used to smell like this, I said. It felt good to have warm memories of time I almost forgot.
That’s nice, said Tom. That’s a nice memory.
Other Stuff
Meet Me In Brixton McD’s — so good when people are given space to write about food that means something to them, whatever its provenance. Yvonne Maxwell paints a picture of her childhood and how McDonald’s was a part of it. Burgers are important, you know.
I am once again begging you to follow Caffs Not Cafés on Instagram. While the name might suggest a certain anti-snobbery towards posher establishments, Isaac Rangaswami truly adores the caffs he visits, and records them faithfully and thoughtfully with every post. I learn more about London’s food culture from him than from anyone else, I think.
On Pellicle this week, a fantastic piece by AJ Cox on the link between musicians and the beer industry. There’s a lot of crossover. It’s a super intriguing idea for a story.
As someone who literally just decided to get into film photography (nothing special, point and click, I found the camera in our attic) and who might be the last person remaining on this earth who actually enjoys putting filters and stupid shit on their pictures, I have become super fascinated by the idea of “film soup”.
The BierCult festival in Brussels is approaching and I am thrilled to be a part of it. It’s going to be a long weekend of beer talks, tastings and other beer-related fun, and I’ll be hosting something on natural wine as part of Sunday’s Compound Drinking session. If you’re going to be in the area, or you fancy popping across the channel to join in, you can get a ticket here.
My Stuff
Not much to report this week from me. A big project is about to finally go live so I’ll keep you updated on that in the coming weeks, and I’m currently spending all my free time writing copy for a famous travel website, which is keeping me busy but not exactly sane.
Keeping away from Twitter continues to do me a lot of good, and I’m urging you as a friend to scroll less. I know, it’s rich coming from someone like me. But it’s summer, and reading in the park with a bubbly water is what you deserve. Go enjoy yourself.
If you enjoy this newsletter, please consider sliding a tip over the counter. I am currently saving up to get some films developed, and to travel to Ulverston for a project of my own for once.
