Whipped Cream: A Lesson
A troubling thing happened at last week's meeting.
It was such a monumentally disturbing development that it took Jersey an entire week to wrap her head around it. (Or she was too dang busy to write until today, take your pick.)
The incident occurred after she cleared the dinner plates and swept the remnants of the incinerated chicken into the trash, while the other Villettes wereswilling wine discussing "The Little Stranger" in the dining room.
The ever-helpful Falcon appeared in the kitchen.
"What can I do?" she chirped as Jersey began to slice a key lime pie, which was not as bad as the blackened chicken.
"Whipped cream!" a grateful Jersey replied, tossing Falcon a can of topping.
The Falcon froze. Smiled weakly. Held the can with two fingers like it was a cold, dead rodent.
"How does this thing work?" she finally asked.
"You've never used canned cream?" Jersey screamed.
"Never," she confessed.
Friends, we are left to ponder the Falcon's childhood. Sure, she had Central Park at her doorstep and a wonderful close-knit family, but think about it: She never once experienced the clandestine thrill of opening the refrigerator door when her mother wasn't looking, basking in that blast of cold air and then shooting Reddi Whip directly into her mouth.
Poor, poor Falcon.
And apparently, until last week, this cosmopolitan woman had not knowingly ingested mono and diglycerides, carrageenan, high-fructose corn syrup or vanilla flavoring. Worse, she hadn't shivered over the naughty excitement that comes with using nitrous oxide as a whipping propellant.
The Falcon actually thought whipped cream was something you MADE BY HAND.
To spare others the same embarrassment the Falcon experienced in Jersey's Shortcut Kitchen, we've prepared a pictorial lesson. Followed carefully, it could prevent serious canned cream accidents and humiliating situations at fancy dinner parties where hostesses serve whipped cream. From a can.
First, look for a red lid and a can that somewhere, in the teeniest print, mentions "Real Cream."
Shake it, baby.
Next, remove the cap. And do not look at what passes for a manicure on our hand model.
IMPORTANT STEP: Invert the can, placing your pointer finger on the nozzle of scrumptiousness.
Press. Squirt. Eat.
Whipped cream makes everything delish. Even tomatoes.
Next time: Better living through Velveeta.
It was such a monumentally disturbing development that it took Jersey an entire week to wrap her head around it. (Or she was too dang busy to write until today, take your pick.)
The incident occurred after she cleared the dinner plates and swept the remnants of the incinerated chicken into the trash, while the other Villettes were
The ever-helpful Falcon appeared in the kitchen.
"What can I do?" she chirped as Jersey began to slice a key lime pie, which was not as bad as the blackened chicken.
"Whipped cream!" a grateful Jersey replied, tossing Falcon a can of topping.
The Falcon froze. Smiled weakly. Held the can with two fingers like it was a cold, dead rodent.
"How does this thing work?" she finally asked.
"You've never used canned cream?" Jersey screamed.
"Never," she confessed.
Friends, we are left to ponder the Falcon's childhood. Sure, she had Central Park at her doorstep and a wonderful close-knit family, but think about it: She never once experienced the clandestine thrill of opening the refrigerator door when her mother wasn't looking, basking in that blast of cold air and then shooting Reddi Whip directly into her mouth.
Poor, poor Falcon.
And apparently, until last week, this cosmopolitan woman had not knowingly ingested mono and diglycerides, carrageenan, high-fructose corn syrup or vanilla flavoring. Worse, she hadn't shivered over the naughty excitement that comes with using nitrous oxide as a whipping propellant.
The Falcon actually thought whipped cream was something you MADE BY HAND.
To spare others the same embarrassment the Falcon experienced in Jersey's Shortcut Kitchen, we've prepared a pictorial lesson. Followed carefully, it could prevent serious canned cream accidents and humiliating situations at fancy dinner parties where hostesses serve whipped cream. From a can.
First, look for a red lid and a can that somewhere, in the teeniest print, mentions "Real Cream."
Shake it, baby.
Next, remove the cap. And do not look at what passes for a manicure on our hand model.
IMPORTANT STEP: Invert the can, placing your pointer finger on the nozzle of scrumptiousness.
Press. Squirt. Eat.
Whipped cream makes everything delish. Even tomatoes.
Next time: Better living through Velveeta.
OK,so I never did have canned whipped cream. But even if I did, I would never put it on a tomato. That is a tomato, isn't it, in the pictorial?
But, I did use cake mix, AND I would make it just to eat the batter. So there.
Now, about our book. Our last book, The Little Stranger. Which, I must confess, I just finished. (Yes, I know it's one week past our last meeting. What can I say? The beach beckons, not to mention getting #2 son back to school.) Without spoiling it for any of our readers (do we have any?), am I the only one who just thinks it's a good ghost story and not about a very malevolent narrator? I usually get text and subtext and deeper meanings as well as well as the next avid book club reader, but am I totally missing something here? Or is it because there are ghosts in my own family history that I'm so ready to believe the obvious story line? Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar, as Freud would have it. Wonder what he would make of this story?
And, finally, this would be a blog entry, not a comment, if I knew how to use the damn blog.
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Falcon,
I'm lost on how to add a blog entry, so I'll comment just like you.
At least we know you looked over the pictorial on how to use canned whipped cream in such detail that you know it was wasted on a garden fresh tomato!
As for the book, there is enough to support either theory. Alot like life, no definitive answer.
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