The Inheritance of the Whipped Cream Trait

My maternal grandmother was a woman of great charisma and whit. She was someone I always aspired to be like, and still do to this day. Her loud innocence and exuberance made her stories robust, naive and inspiring all at the same time. And she ALWAYS crossed the line. What line? Any line. It was her greatest quality. My open profession of love for my grandma is well known to all of my closest friends but the quiet heartache that her passing has caused is something I rarely talk about. Her photograph has always sits, subtly displayed, on the top shelf of Toby’s bookcase and many nights while rocking him to sleep, I would watch her sparkling eye and wish that I could have shared him with her…

So tonight it was with great joy and a trace of nostalgia that I noticed, for the first time, a glimmer of my grandma shining through in my exuberant boy’s life.

The epiphany occurred over a spoonful of whipped cream.

Grandma loved whipped cream. And whipped cream loved HER. Even in her 70th year, I have a picture of her licking the “beaters” of the whipped cream batter for a cake my mom was making. My grandmother was NOT photogenic, but this was one fantastic photo. I was 10 years old at the time. I was not in the picture. I don’t remember my exact whereabouts of that day, but I can assure you that I was not unlike most 10 year olds and probably put up a hard fight to get a lick of those beaters. But my Grandma, in her witty and probably somewhat inappropriate way, OBVIOUSLY won the privilege of licking those beaters off. ALL BY HERSELF.

ON her 80th birthday we took her out for a fancy dinner. For dessert, we ordered a chocolate éclair; her favourite. With whipped cream.

It had been a wonderful evening. We all politely sang to her and she smiled appreciatively. But as soon as the waiter left our table, the gold fillings of her teeth started to show as she raised her fork and snarled to all of us “Stop LOOKING at my DESSERT. It’s MINE..” Not only were we NOT rewarded with a bite; we were not even allowed a GLANCE at her precious whipped cream covered éclair. In peaceful solitude, she enjoyed every mouthful.

Tonight, for Easter, I made Toby and Rob a blueberry pie. At the last minute I found in the fridge some whipping cream, which is, I have been taught, the perfect accompaniment.

At first, Toby was a little skeptical. Usually, for dessert, he enjoys peaches, orange slices or yoghurt; on special occasions we give him pineapple. So the poor guy was a little shocked when I pulled out a BLUEBERRY PIE.

With whipped cream.

Initially he didn’t want any but I CONVINCED him to try some by ASSURING Him that it was filled with nutritious fruits. I was about to launch into the antioxidant benefits of blueberries when he raised an apprehensive bite to his mouth.

As he chewed in reflective silence, Rob decided to give my pie a try and boldly stole a forkful of Toby’s pie from his plate.

Toby’s silence turned to RAGE as he looked at Rob accusingly and said, with a raised fork for emphasis, “SPIT. THAT. OUT!, DADDY!”

Toby doesn’t even have a full set of teeth yet, but I swear I caught a flash of my Grandma’s gold fillings in that whipped -cream-hoarding-frenzy that crossed his face. Or maybe it was just a familiar twinkle in the eye…nevertheless, it was great to see her again.