Cremo Centro Amercano

It sounds relatively innocuous. But it has cemented my fear that I have been cursed by dairy! To understand, we have to go back a couple of days to the Great Halo Farms meltdown.

It was evening when loosecanon( not their real name ) says to me, "we have eggnog ice cream..." Understand, this is short hand for, "I bought ice cream, I want some now, you can have some too, you have to go get it, it will be more annoying than it sounds."

Still, ice cream sounds good. And this is part of a stash that has travelled thirty miles from the wilds of Trenton to be here. Of course, it's now stored in the inconvenient backup fridge upstairs, but that's why it's my job to get it.

So, into the outer stairwell where many random objects block both light switch and walkway. There is cursing and bumping, but I arrive at the top of the stairs relatively uninjured.

More debris dodging and shuffling and the freezer box in mine! It's not really that cold in there... Crap, dead freezer. Many little pints of decadence shine out at me, rotting in a now liquid state. Still having hope, I take one of the heat stroke victims with me to transplant it in the working fridge.

Of course, if there was any bloody room in the main fridge the pints would already be there. I prop my charge carefully and find some other, more mundane, ice cream griping the edge of the compartment.

Alternate ice cream portioned out, I attempt to return it to the freezer. It is at this moment the liquidized pint decides it can't go on. It takes it's life in a dramatic, sticky, belly flop onto the floor, my pants, and the cat. The cat was the only one who didn't seem to mind.

The pants are totalled and the cleanup makes me miss the beginning of my TV show. I'm not real happy. When I finally get to the alternate ice cream, it's subversively melting.

So, back to my South American creme fresh; Cremo Centro Amercano. This should be basically like sour creme. A little smother, but a nice accompaniment to the turkey quesadilla I'm making.

To make it short, after removing a promising blockage of clotted cream from the top the container, the remaining unclotted contents shower the kitchen. It's more like heavy creme and it drips at me, mockingly. The cat seems content, lapping at the mess.

My conclusion, dairy hates me.

This weekend I'd intended to make a fresh cheese called panir. In involves boiling milk and pouring the still scaling contents through cheese cloth. This will either end the curse or result in some kind of injury. The cat looks expectant...