Whipped cream was one of those things that I felt I could never have enough of. I have a sweet tooth of decent size and urgency, never drove out at midnight to get a bag of sweets or ate until I got sick. Mine pulls towards chocolate and straightforward confections containing some berry fruit and/or whipped cream. Nothing short of unspectacular but simplicity has been the color of the day for years.
My official post-race treat used to be a big bowl of whipped cream sweetened with a rivulet of maple syrup. Nothing short of decadence you’ll say, but for a singular food sin I felt I could go to town. Until a few days ago on my birthday when the whipped cream made me uncomfortable and troubled my body in a way that felt like betrayal. It did. I tried it again and having already half-said my goodbye, the confirmation only acted like the straw that broke the camel’s back. The cream camel is no more. Not an impediment, really but a natural progression towards grazing on a different pasture. Having minuscule limitations such as this reminds me of how blessed I am to have rock solid health and a body that can take a beating or two. My recently broken leg healed fast and I am now back to quite a few of my exercise routines. Letting go of a bowl of whipped cream seems too menial to even be mentioned when I am staring at such astounding landscape. As for classifying the above said menial food intolerance I will simply say that I am whipped-cream intolerant. The decadent streak is still there.
The last glass bottle that housed my last whipped cream concoction is now a flower vase, overflowing with tulips. Red tulips with streaks of gold that is.