Occasionally, on special nights, with me sitting at the island, my wife will open the fridge, lift the whipped cream from the door, and make eye contact over her shoulder.
I know exactly what is about to happen. And I can’t wait.
The entire family has a special relationship with whipped cream. We used to have a tub of Cool Whip in the freezer, but long ago, we graduated to the real stuff. Not so fancy that we have our own pressurized dispenser, and we certainly, with the exception of perhaps Thanksgiving, aren’t going to go to the effort of actually whipping cream, but we do get, nay invest, in the pre-loaded canisters of full-fat cream, whipped to sweet deliciousness by our regional dairy conglomerate.
Our first dogs, Reesie and Bodi, were connoisseurs of whipped cream. The sound of the canister lid being popped off lured them to our side, two sets of chocolatey expectant eyes bouncing between face and can, as if to say “What’s taking so long? We both know what is going to happen. Do it now!” It didn’t take more than a few minutes before we gave in and excreted the floofy sweetness straight from the can into their gigantic, slathering mouths, any guilt we might experience erased by the hilarity of their absolute joy. The greatest part, that we still emulate today long after their passing, is what would happen to one of their front paws when they were slurping it up. Much like the toe curling ecstasy of intimacy, one front leg would stiffen, toes contracting, only their claw tips scraping the floorboards until the spraying stopped.
In our present-day household, the role of Reesie and Bodi is being reprised by our children. Perhaps we have activated a dormant gene, but they seem to have an uncanny sense of when whipped cream bottles are out of the fridge and being used. Sliding into the kitchen, same eager eyes as Reesie and Bodi, they saddle up to the island. Accompanying the can of whipped cream, is a tub of strawberries. Like an assembly line, a line not fast enough to keep up with the number of grabbing hands, my wife trims the stems, slices the berries down the middle, and drops them into a bowl. As soon as they hit the bowl, when they aren’t being transferred from one hand directly to another, they are snatched up, held aloft at eye level, the can in the other hand, upside down, and the kssshhhhh of the cream is unleashed. A pile of heavenly cloud pours over the strawberry, piling up to be larger, in volume, than the strawberry itself. That, in one bite, is inserted into a mouth, the eyes already searching for the next one, the brain engaged in the calculus of whose turn it is next based on who consumed the last.
Whipped cream is an underappreciated technology. Hundreds of years ago (yes, it has been around since at least the 16th century), high fat-content dairy was not available, and chefs had to skim airy fat molecules, bit by bit, from tenaciously whipped milk. The tool of choice was often a branch, especially from willows. It took an hour or more to accumulate a serving of whipped cream. It was precious material!
High fat cream wasn’t made readily available until the late 19th century, and that sped the process up rapidly. The entire product could be converted into whipped cream at a much greater volume in much less time. Only a few decades later, cans filled with sweetened cream and nitrous oxide made an appearance, and zero effort whipped cream was born. There are no records of when the next logical step, applying whipped cream from the can directly to mouth, was taken, but I like to think it occurred in the same lab, and at the same moment, where the inventors made the very first pre-loaded canister. Who, in their right minds, would, or could, wait?
The best thing about whipped cream is that, much like the bonded molecules of creamy fat it is composed of, it brings us together. In our house, it starts with whipped cream, and it ends with the entire family around the kitchen, feeling good. The kids, the dogs, they all show up to partake of whipped cream.
Our current dog, Bristol, loves whipped cream as much as Reesie and Bodi, and she eagerly chomps away at what falls out of that mysterious, magical can. Whipped cream flies, things get messy. This inspires the humans involved to try the same, upturned cans held directly over faces. Invariably, the eyes want more than the mouth can handle, and the overfilled cheeks force blobs of cream out onto the floor as the mouth tries to close, Bristol ready and waiting to mop them up off the floor. I can see this a million times, and every time, it is more hilarious than the last.
Our days are busy. Every day, I feel as if I didn’t get enough time for anyone in my life, whether it is my dog, kids, wife, or myself. At times, this creates distance between us all, and we have arguments and tension. I appreciate anything that pulls us together, especially something that does it with such ease and joy. If we can spend half an hour goofing around in the kitchen, thanks to whipped cream, I am grateful for this.
So when my wife turns her head to me, makes eye contact, mischief glinting, whipped cream in hand, I know exactly what is about to happen. The kids and dog are about to show up, we will be together, and we will by happy.
Please follow for more stories, and I would love to hear about your whipped cream adventures!
https://medium.com/@johncombellick/membership
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This post was previously published on medium.com.
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From The Good Men Project on Medium
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