Every now and then my inner Domestic Goddess will awake from her Merlinesque slumber and grace us with her presence. This awakening normally coincides with the opening of the area Farmer's Markets. Something about the first squashes, zucchinis and berries of the season are irresistible to her. Yesterday's selection of strawberries looked especially enticing reminding me of the carton of whipping cream sitting in the fridge; it's expiration date quickly approaching. So last night I cut up the strawberries and tossed in what remained of the blueberries. Sprinkled in a little sugar. Covered and placed in the fridge.
This morning, Little Man didn't get a chance to wake me up. The Goddess was already clamoring for the kitchen and she took a page from Little Man's book. She's up so everyone else is up as well. Less than 20 minutes later the dishes left from the night before were scrubbed and air drying and the cream was being whipped to peaky perfection. I prepared bowls for John and myself. I skipped Little Man. He loves strawberry and blueberry but only in yogurt. I would use our servings to attempt the enticement.
The whipped cream enticed almost immediately as he was digging an unwashed finger into his father's bowl. We moved on to the blueberries but they still require practice enticing impressionable but highly picky preschoolers. The strawberries didn't even bother with their attempt.
So this leads to my darling son making the following request:
"Mommy may I have some butt cream?"
WHAT?
"Butt cream. I want some butt cream."
Whipped cream dear. WHIPPED cream.
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