An Ode to Cream

Ok, so this isn’t an ode. Sorry. But it is a rant in the spirit of one; a monologue fixated on one ever-so-humble, monosyllabically-named subject. Cream. True, it may not be the most romantic translation of the concept, unlike its French sister, but it remains a warming and reassuring one. 

I adore all cream: single, double, whipping (including the spray kind, as any self-respecting individual who was a child would), clotted, iced, chantilly, custard, and those are just some of the more recognised kinds. Others, albeit perhaps somewhere nearer cheese — sour, crème fraîche, mascarpone — also have equally important roles to play. 

I don’t need to explain to you the myriad uses of cream. I’d sooner explain to you how to boil an egg. But just think: it can be found in the finest of pastries and sweet delicacies; it can be daintily poured or thickly ladled over rich desserts as a moist-maker; it’s the go-to frozen salve after break-ups; it’s slathered onto cakes in all their manifestations; it’s a coolant for spicy foods; a soothing and cohering addition to risotto and pasta; a dip for savoury morsels; a lightening or gout-inducing addition to any course, frankly.

Hell, I even love the vegan versions, even if it’s a coconut yoghurt merely pushed through an aerating nozzle so that it resembles a Mr. Whippy: the point here is that it’s meant to evoke the indulgence of cream. In the good times and bad (and the really bad), cream never fails to seduce (me, at least). There’s no coincidence to the phrase ‘Crème de la crème’: cream really is the most profound and I’d say, necessary, addition to, well, everything else.

The real reason I’m waxing lyrical about the C-word? 

Years ago, I moved to Germany. What it makes up for in bread and sausage, it lacks in cream. You’ve got single, you’ve got whipping, and the stock savoury-leaning varieties, but that’s it. No double, no clotted, no extra-thick (a genius innovation now found in the UK, at least). Meaning that all recipes that require cream with more than a minimal level of fat content are barred from me. No ganaches, no homemade ice cream, no rich pasta sauces, no thickly laden cakes. Knowing that, in the country in which I now reside, I can’t spread clotted cream so generously onto a scone that the cream becomes the vehicle for the pastry and jam, doesn’t bear thinking about.

A great thinker once said that man needs three things to be happy: someone to love, something to do, and something to hope for. 

Yeah right.