There’s a moment, right around midsummer, when all of Sweden seems to hold its breath. The sky turns soft and pink sometime after 10pm, kids run barefoot in the grass, and someone, somewhere, is whispering:
“I heard the strawberries are ready.”
Swedish strawberries aren’t just fruit. They’re a seasonal event. A juicy, red reminder that the sun did come back. That it’s finally okay to slow down. That fika, from this point on, officially includes whipped cream.
We’ve seen them piled like rubies at Hötorget’s market stalls or nestled into hand-labelled cartons at your local fruit and veg shop in Vasastan. And yes—we’ve queued for that one paper box, slightly sun-warmed, still smelling like rain, earth, and something remarkably close to happiness.
They’re small. They bruise easily. But the flavor? It’s all there. Deep. Floral. Bright. The kind of berry that doesn’t need anything else. Maybe a spoon. Maybe not. The kind that tastes like it’s been painted by someone’s grandmother, with sugar-stained hands and an expert sense of light. Not “supermarket red.” Real red.
Swedish strawberries (Fragaria × ananassa) are technically not berries at all, but what botanists call an aggregate accessory fruit. That bright red part? It’s a swollen flower base. The tiny seeds on the outside? Those are the real fruits. And while strawberries are available all year thanks to imports, Swedish jordgubbar are different. They’re not bred for transport—they’re bred for flavor. Varieties like ‘Korona’ and ‘Polka’ dominate Swedish farms. Some early ones like ‘Zephyr’ ripen just in time for midsummer, while others stretch the joy into August. They’re local. They’re fleeting. And that’s exactly what makes them magical.
You know the ones we’re talking about: shipped across oceans, shiny like plastic, pale on the inside, and sweet only in theory. These are not those. Swedish strawberries don’t travel. They don’t wait. They ripen fast, they bruise easily, and they taste best when eaten while standing barefoot on a pier with the juice running down your fingers. You eat them now. Because in a few weeks? They’re gone.
As much as we love Swedish strawberries, we still have a soft spot for their Mediterranean cousins. In Italy, fragole show up in March—bright, fragrant, sometimes served with lemon juice and a dusting of sugar. In some regions, even a splash of red wine.
At our founder’s childhood home, Sunday mornings meant bowls of sliced strawberries with a little sugar and lemon. And then came the scarpetta—soaking up the syrup with bread. Simple. Sacred. Delicious. In Emilia-Romagna, they soak them in Lambrusco. In Naples, they crown a ricotta tart. Every region has its own strawberry story. Every nonna has her patch—jealously guarded from birds, kids, and other grandmothers. But even Italians agree: Swedish strawberries win the summer. It’s not even a debate.
Now—we know what you’re thinking. Lasagna and strawberries? That’s a culinary plot twist. But stay with us. We’ve always said: life is made of layers. Summer is no exception. Layer one: sunburned shoulders. Layer two: someone grilling something, somewhere. Layer three: lasagna eaten cold, with a fork straight from the box. Layer four: dessert—always dessert.
After a slice of our vegetarian summer lasagna, made with grilled zucchini, lemon-zest béchamel, and handmade pasta sheets… you’ll want something sweet. Something light. Something joyful.
That’s where our strawberry sauce comes in. Made with fresh local berries, a touch of orange zest, and just enough sugar to make it sing. Or go sugar-free and let the berries speak for themselves. Either way—it’s Swedish summer in a spoon. Refreshing. Juicy. And so satisfying it might make you weep a little. (We won’t tell.)
If you grew up here, you know the scene. A relative (usually an aunt) wakes you early and drags you to a strawberry field armed with Tupperware, SPF 50, and firm instructions: “One for the mouth, two for the box.” Yeah right.
You crouch. You pick. You eat. Your fingers turn pink. You get a farmer’s tan and a full stomach. You head home with a half-empty basket, and no regrets. That’s the way it should be.
New to the tradition? Here’s how it works: Find a local U-pick farm. Bonus points if the farmer has strong opinions about the weather. Bring a basket. It’ll always be too small. Pick until your knees hurt. Pay in cash. Eat half on the way home.
There are plenty of strawberry fields around Stockholm—Sigtuna, Ekerö, Tyresö. But if strawberry-hunting isn’t your thing, don’t worry: we’ve already picked them for you—and put them on your plate.
At Lasagnariet, we don’t do complicated. We do real food, made from scratch, meant to be shared. So here’s our suggestion for the perfect strawberry-season meal: start with a bright salad of asparagus and strawberries, with arugula, fresh mint, a splash of balsamic, and a little cracked black pepper. Unusual? Yes. Surprising? Also yes. Delicious? Definitely.
Then move on to a chilled slice of vegetarian lasagna, packed with grilled summer vegetables and citrusy béchamel. Or go bold with classic Bolognese—because ragù doesn’t care what season it is. Pair it with a bottle of sparkling kombucha or a chilled glass of Prosecco, depending on the vibe.
And finally: dessert. Fresh Swedish strawberries. A spoonful of homemade strawberry coulis. Crushed meringue. A big dollop of vanilla chantilly cream. Simple. Honest. Perfect.
Swedish strawberry season doesn’t rush. It arrives when it wants, leaves when it pleases, and in between? It gives us a reason to pause. That’s the beauty. It teaches us to slow down, to eat with our hands, and to celebrate the small, juicy things in life.
Because just like the perfect lasagna—strawberries take time. You can’t fake the flavor. You can’t cheat the season. You take your time. You use what’s in season. You let the flavors speak for themselves. And when it’s good, really good, you pause and say:
“This is what summer tastes like.”
So this week, we celebrate Swedish strawberries.
Not just fruit. But ritual. Memory. Summer.
From the kitchen with love,
Lasagnariet
