Not so whipped cream

Sunday! It's pancake or waffles, and if we're lucky, there's whipped cream to top them. But a quick peek in the fridge today is sobering: no whipping cream. There is, however, some soy creamer. We've bought soy whipped cream before, how hard can it be? We pour a cup into a bowl, add some vanilla sugar and start beating. It gets foamy like milk would, but that's about it.

Quickly, I dig out my vegan bible, How it All Vegan. They would know. Sure enough, page 151 tells me to add sugar and cornstarch to soy milk, and blend it while drizzling in some oil. I grab the container of cornstarch and start doing the math: 1 teaspoon for ¼ cup milk means 4 teaspoons for a cup. In it goes, and we start whipping again. It does get a bit thicker, but the bubbles start popping when we stop the mixer. Hmm. I try drizzling oil in, to no avail. The recipe does say to let it sit for an hour, which means we won't have whipped cream on our pancakes. Oh, well. The pancakes are yummy anyway, with syrup and jam and yogurt.

I read the comics and a bit of the Sunday paper, we call the in-laws, and then I come back to the bowl of whiteness. It's thick at the bottom, but whizzing it with the mixer yields the same result. Clearly, I have a dud on my hands.

Now, a good professional would just chuck the thing, but I'm still hopeful. I review what's in the white bowl of doom: soy milk (well, creamer), vanilla sugar, cornstarch and a bit of oil. Sounds like pudding to me. There is a Meyer lemon sitting forlornly on the counter. I zest it and juice it and add both to the white stuff, then pour the whole mess into a saucepan. A few minutes on the heat and the whole thing thickens--I fear far too much. Of course it did, there's enough cornstarch in there to set Lake Erie.

Fifteen minutes later, it's set so thick you can pull it out of the bowl in one piece. But it still smells lovely lemony. A couple of times, I come close to chucking it, but that heavenly lemon smell stops me. I bring it to the table for dessert, in four cute little bowls. We all eye it suspiciously. Number One prods his--to see if it will retaliate, presumably. I take a bite (after cutting it off with my spoon). Taste is delicate, texture desolate. I pass it to my Darling Husband and he tries it. He rises slowly from the table, marches purposely to the fridge, and returns with a jar. Yes, homemade jam, the duct tape of our kitchen. He finishes the bowl with jam. One bite even makes it into Little One.

Now, what am I going to do with the other three bowls?