Wimbledon: the world’s elite gather beneath an unrelenting sun, the grass courts gleam sharp-cut, stark white outfits stretch endlessly into the summer sky. It’s where celebrity and tradition intertwine in a delicate dance of elegance and exclusivity, a spectacle that somehow manages to be both utterly glamorous and faintly disdainful, as if the whole affair is turning its nose up at you. It’s almost theatrical: clipped voices, whispered conversations over glasses of Pimm’s, meticulous rows of strawberries and cream served cold. Every detail is curated and the grass itself seems to hold its breath, waiting for the next serve. On the courts, gruel and elegance share chardonnay.
I was a tennis player before I was a baker, and I understand how the rhythm and the pendulum swing of the ball over the net hypnotize. Wimbledon, though, feels like something beyond just sport. It’s somehow both inviting and deliberately distant.
And then there are the strawberries and cream—the simplest, most indulgent ritual of all. The berries are the bright punctuation of those long days: like players’ faces, brilliantly red with exertion, against the stark white of their uniforms. The cream, thick and cool, is the breath between points, the pause where tension softens and time stretches. But not everyone has the opportunity to eat a £2.90 spoonful of strawberries and cream at Wimbledon—I, for one, never have.
This pie is my attempt to capture that feeling, to translate the tapestry of Wimbledon into something you can hold in your hands. The crust is buttery and flaky, baked golden like the Wimbledon trophy. The strawberries are layered in generous heaps, their juice spilling like memories of sunlit afternoons, their color a burst of joy and vitality. And the custard, silky smooth and just sweet enough, covers everything, light and yet grounding.
Baking has always felt like a kind of rally, a measured exchange between intention and chance. There’s precision in measuring and timing, but also the unexpected—the way flour reacts to atmospheric humidity, or the way some fruits release their juice more freely some days than others. Much like a tennis match, it’s a dance between control and surrender. In both spaces—the court and the kitchen—there is an economy of movement and a deep attentiveness to the moment. Both ask for patience and resilience.
If you’ve ever carried a racket through the heat of summer, or found yourself rooting for a player on a distant screen, this pie is for you. It’s a way to slow down, to invite the taste of the season and the spirit of the game to linger a little longer. To take a break, to savor something both transient and lasting. To remind yourself that even the briefest moments can hold a kind of sacredness.
So, here is a slice of Wimbledon—white, red, and buttery gold.
Strawberries & Cream Pie
Ready in 2 hours. Serves 1 9” pie.
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