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Tuesday
Nov292011

Dear Heavy Whipping Creme...

Wasn’t it Chekhov who said “If you put a quart of heavy cream in the fridge on Thanksgiving, you can expect to drink it long before Christmas.”? Or was it Paula Dean?

Dear Heavy Whipping Crème,

That 30-mile bike ride on Thanksgiving morning made me believe I could handle you, but you’re love-handling me instead. We had some decadent good times this weekend, but it’s over. When I bought that quart of you I lied to us both. “I’ll use some for Thanksgiving pie, then save the rest for the holiday party eggnog.” But I couldn’t keep my hands off you.

I slipped a vanilla bean in you to soak over-night, added a bit of orange sugar, and whipped some of you on Thursday for the pie. Of course, there was still some pie on Friday, and what’s pie without whipped crème? Saturday I decided to make myself a pot of coffee. There was light soymilk in the fridge, but next to you he looked rather thin. You know I’m a soymilk girl now. He’s better for me, and less sinus infections too. And when mixed in an Intelligentsia latte with the bittersweet chocolaty goodness of their espresso, I don’t miss the richness of you; I don’t even need sweetener. I'm not the kind of girl to even do coffee at home--maybe it was the holiday, or the cold, but I made a pot, and you were there…and I wanted more.

I made coffee again on Sunday. And there was pie and there was you. And I had a big cup of Earl Grey on Monday, with you and soy, together. I couldn’t tell where you ended and soy began. You were everywhere. And that goddamned pie was still here. And I didn’t want to admit it, but I realized this relationship was bad. It was like with me and potato chips. They aren’t allowed in the house very often, and even then only in small bags. A large bag means it’s probably an “everyday” pleasure, and I’m sorry to tell you, but I’m already in a committed relationship with cheese, and I manage to moderate butter: there’s just no room for another dairy product.

And now it’s Tuesday and your quart is now more than half empty, and the pie is all gone. I’d normally say your quart is “almost half full” except I’m wearing my skinny jeans and they feel a bit more than half full too. I want you to know this is hard for me; It’s hard to admit when there is a food I’m not in control of—that even though I believe you can enjoy everything in moderation, there are some situations I should just avoid. You, my dear crème, are a trigger food, and like Chekhov’s gun, if I have you in my house, someone is likely to get hurt.

So crème, we’re through. I’m going back to my light vanilla soymilk for his low fat content; in time, I’ll feel he can satisfy me again the way you did. And in a few weeks, you’ll get frothed up and added to my eggnog, which usually gets completely consumed by partygoers, and then you’ll be out of my fridge and out of my life.

But hey, we can always hook up once in a great while. Just not at my place, okay?

Much Love,

M