Strawberry Margarita Cheesecake

The grief is a different shape than Paul's grief was. This grief is older — older in me, older in the bone, older in the sense that I have been preparing for it since I was a small girl and noticed that Mamma was not always going to be here. Paul's grief was unjust and brutal. Mamma's grief is just and brutal. Both kinds hurt. The hurting is different. I am learning the new hurt. The kitchen is patient with me while I learn. Astrid drove up from the Twin Cities for a long weekend. We sat in Mamma's kitchen at Fifth Street (Erik has not sold the house yet; we are not ready). We made meatballs together, in Mamma's kitchen, in Mamma's bowl, on Mamma's stove. We did not say much. We worked side by side the way we worked side by side as girls — at thirteen and ten, at nineteen and sixteen, now at sixty-something and sixty-something. The hands knew. The kitchen knew. The kitchen carried us through. Elsa called from Voyageurs. She said the loons came back this week. She said Mamma always loved the loons. She said it had not been the same year without her. I said no. It had not been. We talked for ten minutes. Elsa does not call often. The calls she does make are small and dense, like a hard candy. I save them. I roll them around in my mind for days afterward. I cooked Berry pavlova this week. Crisp meringue base, whipped cream, mixed summer berries. The dessert that looks like more work than it is. Damiano Thursday: a young father came in with two small children. He had not eaten in a day. The children had crackers from a bus station. I gave them three bowls each. They ate without speaking. The father wept silently while he ate. I pretended not to notice. Scandinavian decorum, applied with care. After he left, Gerald and I stood at the pot for a long minute. We did not speak. We knew what we had seen. The pot stayed warm. I miss Erik. I have been missing Erik more than I anticipated. I knew I would miss him, but I had not realized how often the missing would surface — in small specific moments, like noticing the wood pile is low and remembering that he used to chop it for me, or looking at the calendar and seeing the Sunday and knowing he is not coming for dinner. Erik was the closest person to me in space and time. The space and time are now not closed by anyone in particular. The kids fill the gap as they can. The gap is still a gap. It is enough. Paul is not here. Mamma is not here. Pappa is not here. Erik is not here. They are all here in the kitchen, in the smell, in the taste, in the wooden spoon and the bread pans and the marble slab. The dead are not where the body went. The dead are in the kitchen. The Kenwood neighborhood has aged with me. The Bergmans next door (who were a young couple with three kids when Paul and I moved in) are now grandparents themselves; the Larsons across the street have moved to a smaller place; the Andersons three doors down passed away in 2017 and 2019 respectively. The block has filled in with younger families that I am too tired to fully meet. I wave from the porch. They wave back. The wave is the relationship. It is enough.

The week called for something with berries — something that looked celebratory on the outside even when the inside felt heavy, the way a kitchen can hold sorrow and sweetness at the same time without choosing between them. I had been thinking about Mamma, about the loons Elsa mentioned, about the father at Damiano who wept silently over his bowl, and I needed to make something that rewarded the effort — not quickly, not carelessly, but with the kind of patience the kitchen has always shown me. This Strawberry Margarita Cheesecake was that thing: layered and bright, asking you to slow down, the berries on top like a quiet insistence that summer is still here and still good.

Prep Time: 30 minutes | Cook Time: 1 hour 10 minutes | Total Time: 5 hours 40 minutes (includes chilling) | Servings: 12

Ingredients

Crust
1 1/2 cups graham cracker crumbs (about 12 full crackers)
3 tablespoons granulated sugar
1/2 teaspoon fine salt
6 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted
Filling
3 packages (8 oz each) cream cheese, at room temperature
1 cup granulated sugar
3 large eggs, at room temperature
1/2 cup sour cream
3 tablespoons fresh lime juice (about 2 limes)
2 tablespoons tequila (blanco)
1 tablespoon orange liqueur (such as Cointreau or triple sec)
1 teaspoon finely grated lime zest
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
Strawberry Topping
2 cups fresh strawberries, hulled and halved
2 tablespoons granulated sugar
1 tablespoon fresh lime juice
1 teaspoon orange liqueur (optional)

Instructions

Prepare the oven and pan. Preheat oven to 325°F. Wrap the outside of a 9-inch springform pan tightly in two layers of heavy-duty aluminum foil to prevent water from seeping in during the water bath.
Make the crust. In a medium bowl, stir together the graham cracker crumbs, sugar, salt, and melted butter until the mixture resembles wet sand. Press firmly and evenly into the bottom of the prepared springform pan. Bake for 10 minutes, until just set and lightly golden. Let cool on a wire rack while you prepare the filling.
Beat the cream cheese. In the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with the paddle attachment (or using a hand mixer), beat the cream cheese on medium speed for 2–3 minutes until completely smooth and lump-free, scraping down the sides as needed.
Add sugar and eggs. Add the sugar and beat on medium speed for 1 minute until combined. Add the eggs one at a time, beating on low speed just until each is incorporated — do not overbeat at this stage, as excess air causes cracking.
Add the margarita flavors. Add the sour cream, lime juice, tequila, orange liqueur, lime zest, and vanilla extract. Beat on low speed until the filling is smooth and uniform, about 30 seconds.
Bake in a water bath. Pour the filling over the cooled crust. Place the foil-wrapped springform pan inside a large roasting pan. Pour enough boiling water into the roasting pan to come 1 inch up the sides of the springform pan. Bake at 325°F for 55–65 minutes, until the edges are set but the center still has a slight wobble when gently shaken.
Cool gradually. Turn off the oven and crack the door open about 1 inch. Let the cheesecake rest in the oven for 1 hour — this gentle cooling helps prevent cracking. Remove from the water bath, discard the foil, and run a thin knife around the edge of the pan to loosen the cheesecake. Cool completely on a wire rack, then refrigerate uncovered for at least 4 hours or overnight.
Make the strawberry topping. About 30 minutes before serving, combine the strawberries, sugar, lime juice, and orange liqueur (if using) in a bowl. Toss gently to coat. Let macerate at room temperature until the berries release their juices and the sugar dissolves, about 20–30 minutes.
Serve. Remove the springform ring. Spoon the macerated strawberries and their juices over the top of the chilled cheesecake just before slicing. Serve cold.

Nutrition (per serving)

Strawberry Margarita Cheesecake — The Dessert That Carries You Through