No, this post is not about some Spring-inspired, no-fuss strawberry dessert to be prepared for a pool-side fete.
It’s about another profound childhood disappointment (considering re-naming the blog): my tour of one Strawberry House on Harbour Island, Bahamas (insert comment here about how I was/am an ungrateful brat).
I recently spent a night in St. Augustine, and as I wandered the streets, there was a painting of Strawberry House in the window of the Tripp Harrison Gallery. I went in, and the cute young surfer dude who manned the desk confirmed that the painting was in fact done on Harbour Island.
This conjured up memories of my ill-fated Strawberry House tour.
From the outside, Strawberry House was promising: the name, vibrant paint colors, and an external spiral staircase shrouded in Bougainvillea. The inside, however, inspired a profound disenchantment.
The only unique element was that the kitchen was upstairs. A large woven tapestry with a giant strawberry hung from the stair landing. Otherwise, it could have been any bourgeois beach house anywhere. Lots of wicker furniture, airy paint colors, and coffee table books with hundreds of glossy pages dedicated to glorifying water-side living, as if it needs glorification.
I had expected some rendition of Strawberry Shortcake’s Berry Happy Home, which my mother oft reminds me she rode one hour away, to Mobile, one Christmas eve to purchase for me (see: ungrateful brat). Think, plastic chairs molded like strawberries, a vintage stove-oven combo perpetually churning out shortcakes, and perhaps a red velvet rococo settee.
I suppose that is why people seldom seek counsel from their 8-year-old on decor decisions.