It is not summer yet. In fact, it’s been raining for more than a week, and another week — the one in which I presume we’ll be introduced to our new mosquito overlords — is promised. In fact, it was so cold that I met a friend for lunch today and had to wear both a light wool sweater and a jacket. It’s almost like summer looked at New York City and said “pbbbblt!”





But I know it’s coming. I know it’s coming because strawberries appeared at the Greenmarkets last week and if you think I dork out pretty badly when the first asparagus stalks appear, you ain’t seen nothing like my “the strawberries are here!” dance. (And hopefully, you never will, or at least until Jacob gets his tell-all YouTube channel.) Suffice it to say that it is awkward but that’s almost besides the point. Strawberries — the kind that really taste like strawberries — are always promised for weeks before they appear and without fail, I go overboard when they arrive, bringing home pounds, plural, when a single box would get us through the weekend. When Monday rolls around and the strawberries are on their last legs, if you listen closely to them, they’ll tell you that this cake is how they’d like to go out.

I hope this will be your summer cake. I realize that from the outset it may not look particularly different from a standard fresh berry coffee cake. It aligns most closely with the Raspberry Buttermilk Cake I made from Gourmet two years ago, but what makes it different is the volume of fruit — there’s a pound of hulled and halved strawberries in a cake that can barely handle it. The strawberries take over. Nobody complains. The cake is short on steps but long on baking time, and in that hour that it hangs out in your oven, those strawberries turn into puddles of jam. The batter buckles around and the receding berries, which dimple like a country quilt. The edges of the cake become faintly crisp.

And your apartment will smell like a strawberry patch. Your toddler will have no idea what’s on the counter, only that he must march into the kitchen and blindly grasp at it, retreating to his trike with a satisfied fistful. You’ll also sneak a slice before dinner, ruining your appetite and plotting the next time you’ll be able to make it. We cannot make summer get here sooner, but we can at least lay out the welcome mat.





One year ago: Rustic Rhubarb Tarts

Two years ago: Raspberry Buttermilk Cake and Slaw Tartare

Four years ago: Cellophane Noodle Salad with Roast Pork