Years ago, I was sharing a holiday meal with the Old People and their extended family. One of the Old People's grandchildren was allergic to a lot of the better things in life. This meant that we always had to be mindful of what we cooked. When I say allergic, I mean that her mother decided when the child hit the "terrible twos" that surely there must be some biological reason for her child's sudden brattiness. She sent a sample of the child's hair to someone in another city who returned the verdict of "allergies." I have to say, we didn't really believe the child was allergic, but respected her mother's right to be wacky.
(I don't normally flaunt what parents want for their children, but had witnessed on several occasions the child eat several of the items on the "no-no" list without any ill effect.)
Anyway, for a twist on the holiday meal dessert, we made homemade strawberry ice cream. The berries were from the Old Woman's garden. While we were all ooohing and ahhhing over how delicious the ice cream was, the child was looking rather sad over her dish of frozen, unsweetened berries. When her mother wasn't looking, I whispered to her to open her mouth . . . and I popped a small bite of the ice cream in her mouth. The child broke in to a wide smile . . . over the delicious flavor of the never before tasted ice cream. I think that was one of more satisfying acts of rebellion as a young monkey.
This evening, we hosted Super K and her family for dinner. Of course, I think all company meals should have a dessert that includes whipped cream. While I was making the whipped cream, Super K held her little boy up to watch. When the cream was fluffy, I took a small bit on a spoon and offered it to her little boy. He tasted it . . . and broke into a smile and said "MMMMMMM."
And, that is exactly the effect I'm always looking for when I cook.
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