Strawberries and red wine

It takes a Frenchman.

The first time I visited Vince in Vancouver he brought me breakfast in bed. On the pretty tray were cool strawberries, cut in half, with a few spoons of red wine poured over them, with brown sugar. For breakfast! It was wonderful. No wonder I had said yes, the night before, on cold Grouse Mountain.

It is also a perfect dessert after an early summer supper. You need real strawberries, with that ripe red perfume.

The other evening I did a bad, bad thing. I was a bit giddy with the rows and rows of new strawberries at the farmers market and I had bought too many. It was a flawless evening, the sun still high, and blue sky between fluffy clouds.

I brought out the blender.

I have never gone for blended drinks. I can't say why. Part snobbery, I suspect, part a realization that this was a swift and slippery slope to alcoholic bliss. High proof dessert. If I am going to drink I want to know that I am drinking. I really don't want to pretend that I am sucking down a smoothie or drinking liquified jello.

Except for the other night.

In went the ripe strawberries. In went the now cold, leftover red wine from the previous night's dinner. In went some ice cubes. I put the lid on and flipped the switch.

GAGHAGGAGHABFYYBGHGHGHGHGUGTT RRRRRRRT ssssssssssssssssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

It's a very loud blender.

All quiet and smooth now. Slurped it into some tall wine glasses, climbed the ladder to the roof and reclined in our new, striped rainbow deck chairs, the colours of Equal Rights for All.

The drinks were delicious. Not that pretty, but delicious.

They would be improved by the addition of some cracked black pepper.