The picture in my mind involved a soft, buttery shortcake studded with strawberries. Fresh, luxurious strawberries. But the best part was to be the cream. Fresh raw cream flaked with amber-colored sugar, might as well be pure gold, whipped into pillows, dropped lightly with a spoon on top of a piece of cake.
I said I would make dessert. A clumsy promise, a casual commitment really, but one I took perhaps too seriously. It must be without fault, I vowed. I have a high bar to reach in this family of Mennonites and their well-kept kitchens. The highest measure of greatness, however, being my own pride.
I asked my sister why I feel this way. It is pride, I said, answering my own question. But it is also simple selfish longing, because I like nothing in the world so much as fresh whipped cream.
Just before supper, I took out the jar of milk I had poured off our gallon to separate. I began to whip it on a wisp of a prayer, ignoring the fact that it hadn’t separated and I couldn’t see the cream line. I beat it and beat it some more, late for supper by this time. All I got was a pile of frothy milk that overflowed the bowl onto my counter.
For dessert, we served sourdough strawberry cobbler cake with a jar of plain old cream to douse it with. “Emma whipped some cream,” my husband’s lovely mother said.
“It’s not whipped!” I snarled. “It’s just cream.” Like one might say swill or bathwater.
This is a female trap. When there is dirt on the floor — “I haven’t gotten to cleaning the house.” When a dish doesn’t turn out just perfect — “it’s not how I hoped it would look.” I am compelled to apologize, even through my petulant anger, that my efforts have not yielded perfection.
Even now, there are buttercup petals on the floor, but I have done my duty by this house. There are weeds in the garden, but no one is looking, and the potatoes keep growing. Everything matters, I recite to myself. Everything does, but sometimes it doesn’t.
While I inwardly pouted, people ate dessert. And nobody cared about the cream.