Cream can be a surprisingly disconcerting thing. And I’m definitely not just referring to that industrial vat you’ve been compelled to order for the disconcerting rash spreading its malevolent way across your back and down towards the buttock region (I promise that I took those cameras down, I did, however, make no such promises about the elaborate labyrinth of mirrors that give me an almost three hundred and sixty degree view of your bedroom). Nope, we’re getting serious about baked goods today.
So you’ve baked your most recent culinary masterpiece and are awaiting with trepidation for the precise moment it is the correct temperature to adorn with whipped cream. Which means that the time is utterly right for you to whip said patisserie decoration. You are confronted by an unpromising and deeply uninspiring bowl of off white liquid. Which you chuck out in disgust and replace it with the freshly bought whipping cream you’ve purchased.
It’s easy to start out with excellent intentions. Your arm is strong and will not soon tire. Digging in the oddments drawer of kitchen wizardry has yielded a surprisingly sturdy whisk. Using the electric one would be an admission of defeat (plus you can’t remember where the box lives and it’s always really fiddly to put the damn thing together) and your oddly fragile ego certainly couldn’t take that variety of hit right about now.
Therefore, it’s your moment to churn. Round and round your arm goes as the cream steadfastly refuses to go remotely fluffier. Cursing the day you were born and lamenting the decision not to just drop the extra thirty seven pence to buy the can of squirty cream, you persevere. In spite of the ache in your upper arm muscles and the tears you’ve begun to mix in, you can’t help but continue. Let it whip, come on, let it whip.
Let it whip – Dazz Band