Don't Save the Cream

Last week's grocery list contained what is for us an unusual item: cream. Hiromi brought home Heavy Whipping Cream. I wanted it so that I could make something wonderful my mother always made at this time of year-- leaf lettuce salad with a creamy dressing. Almost always the salad also contained radishes and green onions which were harvested from the garden at the same time as the leaf lettuce. My family likes it as a topping for baked potatoes.

My mother did not get her cream from a waxed cardboard carton. Hers was skimmed off the top of the wide-mouthed glass gallon milk jars in the refrigerator, either from our own cow's milk or from my uncle's dairy, less than two miles away.

I am rediscovering the pleasure of cream. Last night I made strawberry shortcake and we all topped that wonderful shortcake with bright berries and an anointing of cream. This morning I brewed mint tea and added sugar and cream. I watched them both sink to the bottom of the cup. Straight back to childhood with this act. Then I stirred it up and drank it. I have long ago opted to have my hot drinks unadorned, except on rare occasions. This morning, before I ate anything remotely resembling healthful food, I had a portion of rhubarb crunch, again with cream. Three portions of cream since last night. Can you tell that I occasionally over-focus?

This cream is so thick it almost drapes itself over a dessert. I know, of course, that cream is the fat of the milk--saturated fat, at that. But at least it does not contain lots of added sugar, preservatives, and other unpronouncibles as ice cream does. I like that the addition of cream makes a very sweet dessert taste less sweet overall.

When I was quite young, but old enough to read, I saw a column title in one of the periodicals we subscribed to--Capper's Weekly, perhaps--"Don't Save the Cream." I must have asked about it, and my mother explained that people often try hard to hang on to something good (like cream). But because they are too focused on preserving the good thing, they often find that it has gone bad (or sour) while they were saving it. It would have been better to enjoy it while it was still good, even if it was entirely consumed in the process.

I'd like to think that my enjoyment of cream has more to do with my mother's wisdom than any compulsive over-focusing tendencies I may have. Who knew that a conversation almost 50 years ago could stand me in such good stead now?