Whipping Cream

When I was growing up, whipped cream came in a little plastic tub.  And contained no actual cream.  Maybe your childhood contained CoolWhip too, and maybe it didn't.  In the grand scheme of things, it doesn't really matter.  Or so I thought.

But then, when Hugh and I had been married for about a month, one of his brothers invited us over for breakfast.  Hugh informed me that we had been asked to bring "whipping cream."  I asked if that really meant whipping cream, or if we were actually supposed to bring whipped cream because sometimes people say "whipping cream," but that's not what they really mean.  Hugh wasn't sure, so we called  his brother back to check.  We were informed that in this family, we did not eat things like store-bought whipped topping.  (You'd think that Hugh would've known, but as it turns out, I married the black sheep--the only member of his family who doesn't cook.)

That was just fine.  I could handle whipping my own cream.  It's not like it's complicated or anything.  Cream.  Sugar.  Vanilla.  Whip.  Tada!

Until I burned through all five of the hand-held electric mixers that we received as wedding presents in two years and decided not to bother getting a new one.  'Cause the pioneers could mix stuff by hand, so why couldn't I?  And that theory worked for everything except whipped cream.  I just couldn't do it.  Every time I tried, I successfully got a great arm workout, but my cream was still soupy.  Maybe I gave up too early.  Maybe there's some secret that people raised on CoolWhip miss out on.  Maybe I just have a wimpy arm.  In any case, I threw in the towel, and, since by then I was ruined and could never enjoy the pre-fabricated stuff again, for years, there was no whipped topping in our house--either dairy or non-.

But tonight I decided to try again.  Because today is Friday, the night when we all watch a movie together and Asher gets to pick a treat for us to eat.  And what should he request?  A strawberry short cake.    So I made him one, but although I whipped the egg whites into stiff, frothy peaks with no problems, when the cake was baked I could not whip the cream to go on top.

So, in a fit of frustration, I poured my cream-and-sugar soup into a jar.  And I shook, and shook, and shook, like a kindergartener making butter.  Except that I stopped short of that, and there it was:  perfect whipped cream.  Finally.

And Asher and Simon asked for more of it after their cake was gone.  And I let them have some because I was so proud of myself.  And I'm so proud, that if you come over, I'll make some for you too. You might have to take a turn shaking, though, because unfortunately neither of my kids is interested in helping.  (Although Asher did ask if I was done yet about a thousand times and Simon helpfully said, "shake, shake, shake!" while I shook.)

And there you have it.  I intend to submit my application for official family membership immediately.  Maybe an attached sample jar of shaken cream will make the admissions board feel more generous.