The kitchen looks like the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man exploded in here.
Fortunately, my kitchen has a door.
The King and Princess M are in the sitting room where he is being forced to endure episodes of Madeline for HIS ‘birthday party.’ They have no idea of the mess I’ve made.
Tomorrow is the King’s birthday and I am feeling under pressure after his great gift of strawberry picking for me earlier this summer. So I decided to stray from my safe, traditional, all American Betty Crocker cake in a box and go for something a little more….European.
A fruit pavlova!!
Ok not really, it’s more like meringue nests with fresh fruit and cream—and to be completely honest the meringue nests were store bought.
But the cream….the cream was real fresh cream…all that needed to be done was open, mix and enjoy.
Or so I thought.
I’m pretty sure the first time I had fresh whipped cream was in Ireland. Back home any desserts calling for cream really meant Cool-Whip.
That’s nothing against my upbringing. In fact, I am pretty sure had I asked my parents, they both would know what to do with the fresh cream to make it whipped…..I am confident they both would have known.
But no. I mixed and mixed and mixed but nothing was happening. I mixed some more. The more I mixed the more it spattered until I eventually caved and asked the King.
Who knew you had to add sugar? Why isn’t it written on the dang container?
Why can’t they just sell Cool-Whip? At least we have Betty Crocker.