So that My Blog Title Makes Sense
I hate whipped cream. There’s no getting around it, I just despise it. When I order at Starbucks, I always end my order with, “No whip.” When I get a dessert that has whipped cream on it, I shove it off with my spoon and then wipe my spoon on a napkin. I can’t even eat mousse or anything else that’s light and fluffy, because the texture is too much like whipped cream. Here’s why:
When I was about 5, my dad was dating this woman, to remain unnamed. For some reason, he was gone for the evening, and she was left with babysitting duty. We had finished eating, she broke out some strawberry shortcake and a can of Redi Whip. Her two kids instantly popped up and said, “Mom! Mom! Spray it in my mouth!!” She sprayed a little bit into each of their mouths, and being the follower that most five year olds are, I ran up to her with an open mouth ready for my turn.
About an hour later, we were playing around the house, when I stopped at the threshold between the living room and the playroom. I leaned over and retched spaghetti, strawberries, and— you guessed it— whipped cream. Pop’s girlfriend was stuck with not only her boyfriend’s bratty five year old, but also her digestive reflexes.
You probably are thinking, “Whipped cream had nothing to do with that. That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard of.” You’re probably right; it’s a little on the irrational side. But I still can’t bring myself to get my mouth near whipped cream. But I still really like spaghetti and strawberries. Go figure.
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