Strawberry Lemon Shortcake

Shavuot — the holiday of dairy and Torah and the first fruits, and I made blintzes, because Shavuot means blintzes, because the blintzes are Sylvia's, because the crepes are thin and the filling is sweetened ricotta and the whole thing is fried in butter until golden, and the making of blintzes on Shavuot is a commandment I follow with the devotion of a woman who takes food-law more seriously than she takes most actual law.

The school held a small ceremony for me on Thursday — not the big retirement event (that's next week), but a quiet gathering of the English department, twelve colleagues who have been my department for decades, some of them former students who came back to teach, which is the ultimate compliment a school can receive: the student who returns to teach in the room where she was taught. Janet Chen, who was in my sophomore class in 2001 and who is now the department's Shakespeare specialist, gave a speech that made me cry, which I did silently, behind my mask (I still wear a mask at indoor gatherings, not because the pandemic demands it but because the mask provides excellent crying camouflage). Janet said, "Mrs. Feldman taught me that words are not decoration. Words are architecture. Every sentence holds something up. If the sentence fails, the whole building falls." I have been thinking about this. It is, I think, the best description of what I teach that anyone has ever articulated, and it was said by a woman I taught when she was fifteen. The chain.

Marvin ate the blintzes. He ate three, slowly, with the focused attention of a man who is experiencing something familiar without remembering why it's familiar, the body knowing what the mind does not, the tongue recognizing the sweetened ricotta before the brain can name it. He ate three blintzes. He said, "More?" I made more.

Shavuot is the holiday of first fruits — and strawberries, bright and fleeting, have always felt like the truest first fruit of summer to me. After the blintzes were eaten and the ceremony was behind me and Janet’s words were still ringing somewhere behind my sternum, I wanted to make something else, something that held the sweetness of the day without asking too much of me. A Strawberry Lemon Shortcake is exactly that: it is generous and dairy and celebratory, and it requires no more grief than assembling beautiful things in layers, which, when I think about it, is also what a career in teaching asks of you, year after year.

Prep Time: 20 min | Cook Time: 18 min | Total Time: 38 min | Servings: 8

Ingredients

2 cups all-purpose flour
1/4 cup granulated sugar, plus 2 tablespoons for the berries
1 tablespoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
Zest of 1 large lemon
2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice, divided
6 tablespoons cold unsalted butter, cut into cubes
3/4 cup cold heavy cream, plus more for brushing
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
1 1/2 pounds fresh strawberries, hulled and sliced
1 1/2 cups heavy whipping cream
3 tablespoons powdered sugar

Instructions

Macerate the berries. Toss sliced strawberries with 2 tablespoons granulated sugar and 1 tablespoon lemon juice in a bowl. Stir to coat, then set aside at room temperature for at least 20 minutes, until the berries release their juices.
Preheat and prepare. Heat your oven to 425°F. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper.
Make the shortcake dough. Whisk together flour, 1/4 cup sugar, baking powder, salt, and lemon zest in a large bowl. Work in the cold butter cubes with your fingertips or a pastry cutter until the mixture resembles coarse crumbs with some pea-sized pieces remaining.
Add the wet ingredients. Stir in 3/4 cup cold heavy cream, remaining 1 tablespoon lemon juice, and vanilla extract just until the dough comes together. Do not overmix — the dough will be shaggy.
Shape and bake. Turn dough onto a lightly floured surface and pat to about 3/4-inch thickness. Cut into 8 rounds with a 2 1/2-inch biscuit cutter (or cut into squares). Place on prepared baking sheet, brush tops with a little heavy cream, and bake 15–18 minutes until golden.
Whip the cream. While shortcakes cool slightly, beat 1 1/2 cups heavy whipping cream and powdered sugar with a hand mixer or stand mixer until soft peaks form. Do not overbeat.
Assemble. Split each shortcake in half. Spoon macerated strawberries and their juices over the bottom half, top with a generous dollop of whipped cream, and set the top half gently in place. Serve immediately.

Nutrition (per serving)

Strawberry Lemon Shortcake — The First Fruits of a Life Well Taught