I've driven past CherryBerry on Highline Place probably fifty times before I finally stopped in — it's tucked in that strip mall between Louise and Western, the one anchored by Target, where you're usually running errands and not thinking about frozen yogurt. But one Saturday afternoon I needed an excuse to avoid folding laundry, so I pulled in.
The setup is what you'd expect from the self-serve yogurt boom of the 2010s — rows of machines dispensing flavors that change weekly, a toppings bar that stretches half the length of the shop, weigh stations at the end. Cake batter, salted caramel, birthday cake, tart original. I went with half chocolate and half cheesecake swirl because I'm an adult who can do what she wants.
The toppings bar is where CherryBerry shows its hand — fresh strawberries, brownie chunks, cookie dough, fruity pebbles, gummy bears, hot fudge, caramel sauce, this little dish of honey that nobody ever uses. I piled on raspberries and mini chocolate chips and a single gummy bear for the aesthetic. My cup came to $6.80, which felt steep until I realized I'd basically built myself a small mixing bowl of dessert.
Here's the thing — the yogurt itself is fine, not transcendent. The chocolate tastes like chocolate, the fruit flavors lean a little artificial, and the texture is smooth but not remarkable. It's exactly what you want when you want it, which is maybe all frozen yogurt needs to be. The real appeal is the ritual of building your own thing, walking that toppings bar like you're conducting market research, watching your kids load up on gummy worms while you pretend you're making healthier choices with your fruit-forward approach.
I ate mine in the car in the parking lot before driving home to fold laundry anyway.
— Grace
But one Saturday afternoon I needed an excuse to avoid folding laundry, so I pulled in.