“Hot date tonight?” Libby, our niece, greeted Howie as he was leaving Cronig’s Market. He was carrying a dozen long stemmed red roses and two cans of Cabot whipped cream.
Well, yes, but it was the roses that contributed to the hot date, not the whipped cream.
Howie has an insatiable thirst for whipped cream. I learned of this lust of his when we were newly married and decided to show my affection by whipping up bowls of it for him from scratch. That lasted for one pint-container of whipping cream.
Only Cabot can keep up with him.
Typically, he squirts it onto sugar-free instant chocolate pudding, but almost any dessert that will support a snowy cloud of whipped cream will do. Pumpkin pie, of course. Applesauce, bread pudding, tapioca, ice cream, stewed pears. His coffee. I’ve seen him eyeing the whipped cream can with regard to split pea soup and Boston baked beans. The other night we had meatloaf. . .
While main courses tend to be speculative bases for whipped cream, dessert is a given. It’s an après dinner ritual to bring to the table two bowls of chocolate pudding, a can of Cabot whipped cream, and three spoons.
Howie leans back, shakes the can vigorously, and calls out, “Kitty, kitty, kitty!”
Claws scamper across the front hall, through the dining room (where we don’t eat), through the kitchen, and into the cookroom (where we do eat), and Daphne, our calico tabby, halts next to Howie’s chair.
She looks up at him.
He sets the third spoon on the floor and squirts a dollop of whipped cream into it. She laps it up and looks up at him again. This is repeated until Howie waves, her signal that there is no more.
How would whipped cream taste with Fancy Feast chicken and liver?