I am reading Suleika Jaouad’s The Book of Alchemy which is a book with a hundred journal prompts to encourage people to write for a hundred days. I am about 75 days in, my hundredth being November 5. Guess what, I don’t plan on stopping.

Today’s journal entry inspiration was about a special food and its nostalgic or memorial meaning. I thought about schnitzel (pork, not veal) and immediately started drooling. Oh, how I loved those thin slabs of golden brown schnitzel with a thin wedge of lemon. That citrus burst after its been drunk into the thin bread coating.

But it doesn’t have nostalgia for me. It’s one of my favorite meals of all time. But it’s not nostalgic. It’s not even comfort. It’s just delicious.

But nostalgia? That’s Swiss strawberry custard tarts. And I’m not even certain if they are all around Switzerland and if they’re just central to the Bernese Oberlands or, even more specifically, the valleyed towns by the Jungfrau, Eiger, and Monch.

When I was a girl, my father was stationed in Munich, Germany and my mother refused to abide on base on the weekends. So we’d pack up the car and head down the autobahn in the general direction of the alps, which really weren’t that far away. It still shocks me to think that entire countries were only a couple of hours from our home, especially when now that’s an overnight journey just to go home.

When we went to Switzerland, we orginally stayed in the town of Lauterbrunnen and migrated up the mountains’ hillsides to the tiny towns of Wengen and Murnau. And after a long day’s hiking, the best thing to do is to regain some of those calories with…yes…schnitzel. But even more were strawberry custard tarts.

Take a shortcrust pastry and bake it to that lovely golden hue which shows the carmelization of sugar that’s been saturated by butter. Pipe into the pastry tart cup egg-yolk golden custard using a star nozzle (sorry, been watching Great British Bake Off recently). Then, top that with strawberries cut in half that you might brush with a thin layer of clear gelatin. Three mouthfuls, if you’re lucky. And you have a perfect strawberry custard tart.

Strawberry custard tarts are meant to be eaten on the gravel hiking trails while seated on the sage-green painted wooden benches. In the distance, you will hear the chorus of cowbells as the cows graze in the high meadows over the summer so the hay can grow in the valley. Every ten to fifteen minutes, a single-noted, high-pitched train whistle will split the air, a sharp counter melody to the lowing cows with the echoing bells.

The air is crisp because you are well above the tree line and staring out at three solemn, snow-covered peaks that are framed by sunlight and late afternoon puffy clouds that may or may not precede the afternoon thunderstorm. You scuff the toe of your hiking boot into the gravel, make stones skitter. Your knee knocks into the wood walking stick that is ringed with hiking shields showcasing the paths you’ve hiked, the mountains you’ve explored, and the cities you’ve visited. In front of and behind you are wide, yellowy-green meadows, lush grass puncutated by golden cowslips, thin white daisies, and deep throated purple-blue enzians.

In one hand, you clutch your tart. If you eat it gracelesscurran style, you have a special process ahead of you that guarantes savoring this treat.

First, with the tip of your tongue, strip away and quickly swallow the tasteless, slightly slimy gelatin layer. It’s only been in the last five years that you learned from a Paul Hollywood scolding that this gives the tart a polished look. You think that he needs to develop taste buds on his tongue and not on his eyes.

Now, you have four strawberry halves. These are not the wimpy grocery store, unripe berries that are pink at the tip and white rimmed. No, these are lucious, sun-warmed rubies that have been cultivated on their vines and left to mellow under wide, frondy leaves. One at a time, suck them into your mouth and hold them on your tongue. Let the tart sugariness of spring and summer fold you into memories of winnowing through rows and picking berries that you eat as opposed to dutifully sinking into your bucket. Or you remember those childhood moments of kite flying and starting at the kite as it hovers like an eclipsing moon in front of the sun. Or you are just a burst of sweet sunshine echoing a robin’s song.

Each berry must be savored. Each berry must be relished because each is an invitation into memories and succulent happiness.

Now, the custard.

My favorite.

It will have streaks of red from where the berries’ juices have seeped across the yolky dunes. Up and over golden, shimmery edges are the indentations of where the berrys laid. You can see a slight moisteness, almost a pink imprint.

You lick slowly. Very slowly because this is the moment when your tongue will float and your mouth will be happy and your eyes will roll back in your head and you are seduced by this light sugary cloud. Oh, sup slowly because the portion is so small and it’s just so tempting to slurp it all down immediatley because you have waited so long to enter into this sweet, sultry moment.

This is what buttercups should taste like. A dragon’s hoard of gold. This custard is the sweetness of childhood memories, of being nestled under warm blankets in a big comfy chair in front of the fireplace on Christmas night, after all the presents are open and the meals eaten and it’s just contentment. The custard is the consistency of comfy pillows, happy dreams, warm clouds, and a mother’s gentle hug.

Damn it. You ate it too fast. Because one slow lick is only a seductive tease to that thick starred gloriousness tucked within a buttery shell.

Which leaves the pastry. Almost disappointing in its possible dryness. But, no, this is made from fresh butter which still has the essence of Swiss alms and high mountain sunshine. This is sugar melted into floury, buttery pastry that has been pressed into a shell and baked until you are eating sunbeams still streaked with custard and strawberry juice. This is what my father’s love tastes like. At one moment, sturdy. Filling. And then it just melts when it rests on your tongue for a moment. It draws in your breath and unfolds, filling you with salty-sugary goodness.

This the food of my childhood, of my adolesence when I grew from girl to young woman who was confused by her non-femininity but reveled in who she was. This is the food that nourished me and my dreams. This were my morsels that I nibbled on after a long day’s hike while sitting on a balcony and watching avalanches burst over a glacial ridge. Or while I blew bubbles that absorbed the sunshine and formed into a swirling iridescent, cosmic atmosphere before gravity seeped the soapiness earthward and the bubble popped.

I’m 53. And when I go home, I still buy bubble mix and dream about those strawberry custard tarts. I have not had one in over thirty years. But I can still taste them, even now.