You’d think my husband would be a snob when it comes to the finer things in life. He is French, after all. At least I think he is. I sometimes have my doubts.
Because he loves Cool Whip, that factory-processed, chemical-laden imitation of what the French call “chantilly.” I mean, really. Is it a difficult choice? Just going by the names alone says it all. Lowbrow, guttural Cool Whip vs. highbrow, rolls-off-the-tongue chantilly. It’s a no-brainer, isn’t it?
Well, apparently the Cool Whip doesn’t fall far from the tree. Because my girls think it’s a no-brainer. The photo shows Sophie licking what remains of Cool Whip and strawberries off her plate. Chloe, of course, instigated it. And their Papa encouraged the gluttony. He truly is a bad influence.
And now our dear children have been corrupted. If they tried real chantilly, they’d probably spit it out. All because of my French husband, who has lived in the United States for much too long.