Whip it good

Spotted the other day in a conference room following an employee birthday party.

Truth be told I don't see whipped cream cans much anymore. We try not to keep a lot of processed food in the house. And even if we did, it would never occur to me or my wife to bring one of these home.

Maybe I'm a victim of today's design craze, but the whipped cream can technology seems so antiquated. Where do people keep these in their fridge? Next to the 2 cents plain seltzer bottles?

You'd think by now Crate and Barrel or some German Design Firm named, Uber, would have gentrified the whipped cream dispenser into some cool must-have kitchen accessory.

In college, the whipped cream can was a highly cherished item. Not for its creamy content but for the Nitrous Oxide propellant. The same Nitrous Oxide favored by dentists and outpatient surgeons and commonly referred to as laughing gas.

When my buddy Dave and I worked at Denny's in Syracuse, NY, we made it a point of getting the night shift on Wednesdays. That's when the dairy truck made its delivery and restocked the walk-in cooler with cases (note the plural) of whipped cream. As Mr. Zagrino was signing for the delivery, Dave and I were furiously ripping open the new treasure trove and inhaling the Nitrous Oxide out of every can.

The skilled Nitrous extractor knows the exact pressure needed to release the gas from its container without getting a mouthful of whipped cream. After six or seven 'puffs', the non-stop laughter began.

It worked out well for Dave and I.

It didn't work out so well for the truck driver pulling off the NY State Thruway for some well-deserved sugary dessert. From our cook's station behind counter, we'd watch the night waitress vigorously shake the can of whipped cream, point it at the perfectly carved out slice of apple pie only to watch the watery cream dribble out of the dispenser like an old man coaxing some cooperation from his over sized prostate.

At this point in the proceeding, the waitress would glare at us.
And we would start laughing all over again.

Ahhh, the memories.

When the party was over and the false employee camaraderie had dissipated and the doors of the executive conference room had closed, I snuck back in and sucked all remaining laughing gas out of the can. The next birthday isn't for 10 days, so I think I'll be good.