Strawberry Pasta Sauce

Strawberries belong to summer, a juicy bite on hot days, a sweet treat baked into 4th of July cobblers. So, lucky for the summer aficionados of this singularly scrumptious berry, of which I count myself one, I have cracked the strawberry wide, wide open. I discovered the ultimate way by which to incorporate strawberries into more than salads, desserts, smoothies, and breakfast parfets. I discovered how to make this berry the centerpiece of a new dish. I had, indeed, revolutionized, pioneered, innovated the strawberry and what it was capable of—instead of tomatoes as the base of pasta sauce, I would use strawberries. This stroke of genius was the great synthesis of two things: the summer sweetness of a strawberry and the satisfying slurp of spaghetti.

I get to cooking.

A package of fresh strawberries: check.

A splash of olive oil: got it.

A shake of salt and pepper: done.

I turn the stovetop on and tick the dial to low heat. I drizzle the olive oil into an old blue saucepan that has seen it all, from caked-on risotto that took hours of muscle-aching scrubbing to disengage to a homemade attempt at French onion soup complete with two full sticks of butter to a cheese sauce that boiled over in a sticky, gluey mess and coated the pan’s sides in a thick armor.

Time for one more foray into the culinary outback, old friend.

The olive oil sizzles with that pleasant snap of popping oil that becomes far less pleasant when it sprays out and lands on an unsuspecting finger. Fingers be damned, the strawberry pasta sauce that will change the course of berry history is being prepared.

As the oil spitters and spats, I wash each strawberry with great care, wondering if these unsuspecting specimens are aware that they are about the make culinary history. I pull a small paring knife from the kitchen drawer and slice each berry into two halves, cutting off the stems and throwing them into a plastic bag in the process.

A squirrel looks in through the kitchen window, accustomed to my regular distribution of peanuts and sunflower seeds, his favorite summer snack. His black, glassy eyes widen, and his hands settle one atop the other, the figure of a perfectly patient rodent. He assumes his best pout. If only he could stick out his lower lip, the look would be complete. As per usual, his charm works on me. I take a slice of strawberry, open the sliding glass door to the outside, and throw it out. The squirrel bounds after it, pleased that the human behind the glass is still not immune to his critter charm. Unfortunately for that piece of strawberry, it will not be making culinary history with its brethren.

I pour the strawberries into the sizzling saucepan, which, at this point, would likely beg for retirement if it could talk. Cooking strawberries, what a nice scent. Heartily in disagreement, my tuxedo cat watches me from across the room, his pale, yellow eyes narrowed into slits. He knows that nothing good can come of strawberry pasta sauce. He also reproaches citrus, and his narrowed eyes scold me for not only bringing strawberries into the house but also proceeding to cook them so that their nasty, tangy fumes coat the air. After watching me with disappointment, he saunters from the kitchen, looking back once more before turning the corner and flicking his tail with a disapproving swat—silly humans and their silly ideas.

The strawberries start to sag from the heat, their once plump form turning to a wilted one, the stars of summer turned to sad, withered shells of their former selves. They languish in the heat from the stove and reminisce of when they were the envy of all, beautiful berries in the summer produce aisle at the local grocery store. Hold out, berries! You’re still on your way to making culinary history.

The strawberries turn to mush and quickly start disbelieving my promise of their impending role in the annals of food breakthroughs. This was a bad, bad idea.

My dad asks when dinner is. It’s soon, I assure him, adding in a faint voice that I hope he brought his appetite.

Dinner is ready, and it is, needless to say, quite gross. My dad, the trooper he is, pours the gloppy mess of strawberry pasta sauce over his noodles. The strawberry skins, once a bright, glorious red and the envy of all summer fruits, sit in sinewy strands on the steaming pile of pasta, desperate to regain their glory yet all too aware their best days are behind them.

While strawberries quaked for many years to see me coming down the grocery store aisle, certain I would carry them to the same fate as their ancestors, I did not repeat my arrogant attempts to revolutionize the strawberry as the key ingredient of pasta sauce. These days, I’m happy to snack on the berry and appreciate them for what they are, the queens of summer fruit, while I watch the bright white, cotton candy clouds of summer float by.