Issue #212: The Season’s First Strawberries with Sweetened Ricotta and Hot Fudge

The First Fruit of Spring, An Allergy Overcome

Spring has been cold and wet this year in New England and everything that grows is late. So it was exciting to stop by the greenhouses of Edgewater farm at the bottom of our road last week and spot the first strawberries of the season for sale. Their farm stand wasn’t even open yet. But there amidst the pots of perennials and herbs to plant for future reward was something local that was ready eat. I bought two quarts.

The first strawberries of 2025 from Edgewater Farm.

Only since last year have I been able to bring home quarts of strawberries for me and Nate to enjoy. That’s because for most of our 17 years together and forever before, Nate has been allergic to strawberries. Whenever he’d try them, he’d have a histamine reaction that, although not severe, was enough to make him steer clear.

To satisfy my own craving when strawberry season arrived, I’d often pick up a pint at the Union Square Greenmarket on my way to work and eat them all at my desk in one go. Sometimes I’d Hoover a quart.

Worried that his reaction might get cumulatively worse, Nate once had himself tested by an allergist. She assured him he wouldn’t ever have an anaphylactic response from eating berries, but advised him to avoid them if they caused discomfort. Ever since, when making dinner reservations, I’ve noted his strawberry allergy. (I also tell them he is allergic to mollusks and sea urchin, but those he just finds gross.)

Nothing is better than the strawberry shortcake at Beth’s Farm Stand in Warren, Maine—worth an allergic reaction.

I should insert a footnote here that traditionally Nate broke his strawberry abstinence once a year, when we were visiting our friends in Maine during the summer. That trip always involved a visit or three to Beth’s Farm Market in Warren, where they sell what is inarguably the best strawberry shortcake on the planet, made from their own berries macerated with sugar, their farm-fresh, unpasteurized whipped cream, and fresh-baked, appropriately stodgy shortcakes that soak up all that berry juice. It is heaven and Nate always deems it worth whatever allergic reaction he might endure.

Italian friends of ours who are strong believers in biodynamic agriculture had suggested for years that it was more likely the chemicals sprayed on strawberry crops than the berries themselves to which Nate was allergic. But it’s hard to know much about where most berries come from or how they are grown. So it was easier to just avoid them altogether.

Until we moved to New Hampshire, that is.

I’ve gone on and on about how lucky we feel to have bought a house a walkable distance from Edgewater Farm, which many consider to be the best market farm in the Upper Valley. Although I appreciate their farm stand for its impressive diversity of crops, it was originally a berry farm, and they still produce a significant harvest.

Last year, as a sort of test of our friends’ theory, Nate decided to consume a bowlful of Edgewater berries. He waited for a reaction. Nothing.

Everything in this photo comes from within 10 miles of our home.

He took this as proof of the theory—not really ever confirming whether Edgewater sprays their berries or not, to be honest, and I didn’t ask—and proceeded to consume his weight in strawberries over the course of the season, making up for decades of lost time. I made my first batches of strawberry jam since we were together, and we ate strawberries together whenever and however we could.

One of my favorite things to do with strawberries is to hull and slice them, toss them with with a dribble of fresh lemon juice and a spoonful of sugar, and let them macerate a few minutes to produce a delicious juice—similar to what Beth’s does by the bucketful for their shortcake. This year Nate made me promise I would make and freeze berries treated this way so we could enjoy them throughout the year.

In the meantime, that’s what I did with our first couple of quarts one evening this week for dessert. To go with the macerated berries, I sweetened some fresh, local ricotta—made a few miles away in Meriden from a hobby herd of Gurnsey cows at Mill Bridge Farm—added a dab of vanilla paste, and spooned that into a bowl. I topped the ricotta with the macerated berries and then, to gild the lily, I heated some of our favorite hot fudge sauce (see Issue #35)—we always have it in the freezer for Nate’s sundae attacks—and, no surprise, it was pretty darned good.

Good enough, I thought, to share the recipe. Enjoy.

Admittedly, the hot fudge sauce is gilding the lily. Life is short. The world is upside down. Why not cover everything in (black) gold?

RECIPE: Fresh Strawberries with Sweetened Ricotta and Hot Fudge

Serves 4

• 1 pint fresh strawberries, rinsed and drained

• 1 cup fresh ricotta

• ½ lemon

• 1 heaping tablespoon granulated sugar

• 1 tablespoon powdered sugar

• 1 heaping tablespoon full-fat plain Greek yogurt

• ½ teaspoon vanilla paste

• Pinch salt

• ¼ cup hot fudge sauce (see Issue #35)

Using a small, sharp paring knife, slice off the hull of the berries, and then, depending on size, quarter or halve them into a bowl. Place the ricotta in a small mixing bowl. With a microplane grater, zest the half lemon and add the zest to the ricotta. Squeeze a few dribbles of the juice onto the sliced berries. Add the granulated sugar to the berries and toss. Let sit until they give off their juice, about 10 minutes.

Meanwhile, to the bowl with the ricotta and the zest, add the powdered sugar, yogurt, vanilla paste, and a pinch of salt. Mix well. Adjust the taste to your preference.

Heat the hot fudge, if using, in a microwave for 10 seconds. Divide the ricotta among four small bowls. Top with the berries and their juice and drizzle with hot fudge. Forget everything else.