Why I’m Thankful for Cool Whip (or why I don’t bake from scratch!)

We’ve got a neighborhood picnic this evening; a chance for the busy families in our small culdesac to extend relationship beyond a mailbox greeting. There will be plenty of food and a warm campfire for roasting over. And there will be all kinds of clever and beautiful dishes created by the empty-nesters that live on my street. I have to admit, that though I love to eat potluck style (choices! choices! I love choices!), I often struggle with my own contribution to the food line. Practicality suggests that I should bring a basic kid dish to ensure that my five children will at least put something besides chips on their own plates. But that sneaky small voice of domestic insecurity suggests that just maybe I should ambition to prove I can rival Martha Stewart if I simply put my mind to it.

Perhaps that’s why I had a moment of reality lapse I as I was tossing together the ever-so-popular Snicker salad (I must admit, I love a dish that allows me to clump my chocolate in with my fruit food group!). As I chopped up the Granny Smiths, I began to imagine all the cute little pampered chef recipes that would surely be setting right next to my glorified pudding. And for one crazy instant,I wondered if I, too, shouldn’t take a little extra time to whip up an impressive made-from-scratch dish that would not only taste divine, but look gorgeous in the potluck line.

Thankfully, before I could act on my competitve ambition, Maggie spit up on the carpet and began to fingerpaint with the regurgitated milk; while Joshua waltzed into the kitchen stark naked with his own dirty diaper in hand. Before I could even say “Martha Stewart,” I was brought back to my ever present reality. Later, when I asked my nine-year-old daughter if she thought I should have made something “from scratch” she gave me a doubtful glance and mumbled, “Mom, do you remember the last time you tried that?”

It all began with those cute little road side stands perched along the lakeside roads in Michigan and my husband’s inability to drive by the tantalizing lure of beautiful produce. In Rob’s defense, Michigan farmer’s markets boast a rainbow-like beauty with which our Iowa sweetcorn stands can’t compete. So, as we wrapped up our week-long family vacation, we loaded up on boxes of blueberries and bags of peaches with visions of freezing the summer sweet fruit and enjoying a taste of Michigan all winter long. In theory, it was a great idea. But when a family of seven is piled into a minivan that seats only seven, and that family has just hauled half of their house to another state for a week long vacation,there is little room for unplanned cargo. And even if a family of seven does find places in their overstocked mini van for the purchases, the fruit has to survive an excrutiating 14 hours home in order to be gently placed in the waiting refrigerator.
Needless to say, by the time I unloaded the bag of fruit that had been wedged between my feet and the dashboard, the luscious handpicked peaches were rather squashed and bruised. Being Dutch (translation- frugle), I couldn’t bear to throw the ripe jewels away, so I scoured my cookbooks in search of an idea on how to use delicious but squashed peaches. I found a homemade peach dessert marked with this notation from the author, “This recipe is PERFECT for the end of the summer Michigan peaces” 🙂 Inarguably, I knew that I’d just stumbled on the recipe for me-never mind that I didn’t own any of the ingredients necessary for making the acclaimed dessert. I went to the store on Monday with five children in tow, bought all of the required ingredients; then came home eager to impress my family with a rare Martha Stewart moment. However, when I got home, I was shocked to discover that most of the peaches I had planned on using were gone. Seems the kids had a snack when I wasn’t looking, and weren’t a bit bothered by the bruised condition of our Michigan fruit.

Hindsight suggests that at that point in time, I would have been wise to surrender my visions of kitchen stardom and simply whipped up a batch of chocolate chip cookies for dessert instead. But a woman seeking her own glory rarely sees clearly! All I could see was a grocery sack full of ingredients that begged to be used and an imagined crown of praise that would be presented to this supermom when she presented her family with the FRESH PEACH DESSERT. Determined to complete my mission, I decided I could slice the peaches small and thin and merely stretch the fruit out in a sparse layer to accomodate the designated 9×13 pan. Once I’d done so, I was shocked at just how little fruit three skinned peaches produces. For one weak moment, I was tempted to open a generic can of peaches from the pantry to fill in the gaps, but the note in the recipe’s margin cried out against such heresy with the bold warning: THIS DESSERT IS NOT THE SAME WITH CANNED PEACHES. So in the end, I took what remained of my FRESH MICHIGAN PEACHES (very little besides the seed) and squeezed out all drops of juice I could muster in an attempt to make the dessert “taste peachy”. I ended up rearranging my skinny layer of peaches over and over until I was convinced that each bite would have one token peach; then, I took heart in knowing that the HOMEMADE WHIPPED CREAM would cover my measly fruit filling and compensate for any lack.

To be honest, I’m a cool whip gal. I can’t remember a time I’ve ever made REAL whipped cream, in fact, I didn’t realize one could do so. That being said I wasn’t quite sure how to do it. Thankfully, a quick look in my cook book instructed me on the fine mechanics of producing perfect whipped cream, complete with fluffy peaks that beg for a photograph once the dessert is done. I armed myself with my mixer and waited for my bowl of whipping cream to transform into the mountains of creamy paradise that my recipe book promised. However, after much whipping and mixing and anticipating, I realized the whipping cream wasn’t looking whipped- no -peaks of cream rising out of my mixing bowl- just a flat white substance that resembled a bowl of vanilla ice cream. Certain that time was the magic ingredient, I left the mixer running and went to the other room to change baby Maggie’s diaper. When I returned to the kitchen, I found two-year-old Joshua squatted on the counter, carefully dropping chocolate chips one by one into the bowl of not-so-whipped cream. I guess the clever kid thought we were making cookies- since that’s the only reason his mom ever uses the mixer 🙂

After picking the chocolate chips out of the cream one by one, all the “fluff” that had been gained with my miracle mixing was gone and most of the cream had been licked off of my fingers or stuck to the chocolate. In the end, I spread a THIN layer of white stuff over the already sparse layer of peaches and stuffed the ugly looking MADE FROM SCRATCH DESSERT into the refrigerator. I then promptly convinced myself to feel sorry for Martha Stewart because she most likely never had the privilege of cooking with toddlers, changing poopy diapers and answering at least one-hundred questions from a cumulative of five precious children all while whipping up a dinner dessert from scratch. When I was finished cleaning up the dishes from the two hour baking endeavor, I called my dear husband and kindly suggested that if he ever got the craving for a fresh peach dessert, I’d gladly drive to our local nursery and buy him a homemade peach pie!
I think tonight, I’ll go ahead and plop my simple Snickers salad right next to the fanciest dessert at the potluck. And as I do, I’ll breathe a prayer of thanks for cool whip and for a God who loves “Marys” just as much as He loves “Marthas”!