TheBanyanTree: Whipped Cream Revisited

[A. Christopher Hammon]

It started with a conspiratorial giggle as my two nieces ran up to me
and proclaimed in unison, “We know something you don’t know!” And then
they took off running.

I was gathering with my siblings for Thanksgiving dinner; still a new
think for us coming out of recent reconnecting. The young daughters of
my brothers had raced away through the house full of life, enthusiasm,
and secret. They would not be gone for long, however, because I had
become their favorite playmate during these gatherings; having never
completely outgrown childhood myself. The game now was whether they
would yield the secret before its time.

They played the game well this year. We exchanged the usual skirmishes
as they dashed up to repeat their proclamation of insider knowledge, and
they were always successful in their retreat as they dashed off through
my brother’s house with the speed and agility young legs provide.
Although it did become apparent that they were not alone in this
conspiracy, there were adults – most likely all – equally involved. They
made it through the main part of dinner; gazing at me with mischief in
their eyes and occasionally turning to each other and giggling.

And then we came to dessert and it became apparent that it was the
moment everyone was waiting for. As if on cue the girls jumped down from
the table and dashed to the kitchen. They came back quickly, but with
topping rather than dessert. Each was brandishing a pressurized can of
whipped cream, nozzles at the ready.

Now this all started six years ago when I pulled out an old family story
to write a Thanksgiving Day piece for the Spoon, that predecessor of our
gathering here in the BanyanTree. It was a story that had been lost and
told to me years ago by an aunt. Now it has found a new generation that
has turned it into a family holiday tradition. It has become one of
those stories that must be retold again and again to the delight of at
least a few nieces and nephews. I gathered up my plate of whipped cream
that hid a piece of pumpkin pie in its midst, and shared again the tale
that was familiar to some and new to others:

Once upon a time some long years ago, we had gathered for Thanksgiving
Dinner. All things considered, it was a wonderful Thanksgiving.  We had
just moved back to the heartland of Illinois, into the middle of most of
my mother’s family.  So everyone was gathered at my aunt and uncle’s
farm to celebrate the joy of the day and to give thanks for being family
– and for being such a big family.  The big dining room table was full.
The big kitchen table was full.  Card tables strewn throughout the rest
of the downstairs rooms were full. It was a feast in the full
traditional sense of Thanksgiving overabundance on the farm. We were
stuffed, and it looked like we had barely begun to touch the food that
had been prepared. We had been back in town for less than a week, and it
was a wonderful feeling of welcome.

But none of that is important to this tale except to say that I had not
been around all these people for a major feasting celebration since I
had been an infant.

We were laughing and talking and telling old family stories as the
dessert started around.  Slices of pie were being passed, and they all
looked wonderful.  There was pecan pie, there was cherry pie, there was
apple pie, and best of all there was lots of pumpkin pie.  As a plate
with three slices from different pumpkin pies landed in front of me, I
became aware that these folks knew of my love for pumpkin pie.  For
years my mother used to make pumpkin pie year round for me.  And when
she made it she always made two--one for the family and one for me.  I
had scoped out the pumpkin pies early in the day trying to decide which
would be the best.  Now I had a sampler-plate in front of me.

All I needed was some whipped cream on top and I was going to be in
heaven.  I scanned the table quickly for the trusty can of Redi-Whip. I
spotted it just a few people away.  I watched it making slow progress
toward me as people shook it up and squirted mounds of the lovely white
stuff over their pies.  In eager anticipation I awaited my turn with the
can.

Finally, it was almost to me.  I was going to be next, and my fingers
twitched with impatience as my mind chased the dreaded fears that the
can might sound its empty cry before it reached me.  Finally, it was my
turn, and I reached to take the can firmly in my grasp as it was passed
to me.  But it was not to be.  My aunt intercepted the can, snatched it
away before I could even get my fingers on it.  In fact, I don’t think
it was going to be passed to me at all.

“Oh, no you don’t,” my aunt proclaimed.  “Not in my house or at my
table.  You are not allowed to touch the whipped cream cans.”

“What did I do?”

And so the story was told.  It seems I made quite an impression that
last time I had been a part of this family’s Thanksgiving gathering.

Apparently the family was into propriety and appearances back then.
Everything was expected to be proper and perfect.  And so everything had
been on that Thanksgiving Day.  People were dressed in their “Sunday
best,” the heirloom china was on the table along with the family
silver.  With well-groomed manners the generations had gathered,
including two relatively new grandbabies – my cousin and I.

It had been a perfect meal as the plates bearing pumpkin pie were
brought to the table and the bright, shiny Redi-Whip can started making
its way from hand to hand.  “What fun,” I must have thought as I watched
people grab it, shake it, tip it over and squirt it out.  Or as the
story is told, my eyes got big and I laughed and I bounced and I clapped
my hands in joy.  Best of all, I’m sure I thought, that can kept getting
closer.

I was sitting on my granddad’s lap when it got too close.  Apparently I
was being unusually well behaved on this particular day, and everyone
was enjoying my presence at the grown-ups table.  But in the blink of an
eye, they say, I had that can in my grubby little hands and was giving
it the shaking of its life.  It was such a cute thing to see, so they
let me continue.  I bounced and I shook and I laughed ‘til they cried.
It was all so much fun.  I forgot to tip it over, but I did remember to
squirt.  I showered the table with whipped cream.  I squirted it over my
shoulder – granddad a la whipped cream.  I squirted it everywhere.
Suddenly people started scrambling in every direction; first in an
effort to get that can away from me and then simply to get out of the
way of my whipped cream spray.  And of course, every one at the other
end of the table, those who thought they were safely out of range, just
rolled with laughter.

Whipped cream spraying, people screaming, and hands grabbing.  What a
scene!  Suddenly it slipped.  Knocked away by a grabbing hand, the
whipped cream can took flight.  You can imagine the slow motion replay
like a Thanksgiving Day football game.  End over end it sailed through
the air, arcing high like a football punt.  Shock registered on the
faces at the other end of the table as they stretched to catch it and
attempted to flee the scene at the same time.  Did I mention the lace
tablecloth that had been handed down from generation to generation?
There were no lucky catches this time around.  That shiny can landed
with a shattering crash square on the up-until-then-full gravy boat.
People scrambled, glasses tumbled, and plates fell to the floor.  In an
instant the dinner table was transformed into a shambles.  It was a
Calvin and Hobbes cartoon come to life.

It has been thirty years since the move back into the midst of family,
but as I visited there two weekends ago I heard the story again.  And I
am still not allowed to touch the whipped cream can.

Cheers,
Chris


_________________________
A. Christopher Hammon
Wayne E. Oates Institute
http://www.oates.org