Image by Robert S. Donovan via Flickr
If you're afraid of butter, use cream.
Yes. I saw "Julie and Julia." Yes. Meryl Streep channels Ms. Child and makes her so darn appealing that it's hard not go home and whip up a pot of beef stew. But let's not talk about that. Let's talk about butter.
When I think of butter, I think of my father-in-law, Tom Finnegan. When he was dying of leukemia, I knew that the end was near because I found butter in his refrigerator. Tom had given up butter years earlier, a consequence of a week at a very regimented diet and fitness camp where people were encouraged to reject all things hinting of cholesterol. This was before the good versus bad cholesterol days; this was during the cholesterol equals Satan days. So when I saw the butter, I knew that Tom had thrown caution to the wind. If he was going to die, he was going to first relinquish the shackles of healthful self restraint and slather his final days in creamy, wonderful, artery-clogging indulgence.
What is it about butter? Cream it with sugar and it's an airy piece of heaven, just a handful of flour away from the promise of a birthday cake. Cook it with lemon juice and eggs yolks and it's higher fashion than a Prada bag. Spread it on a rustic loaf of bread and you've just connected yourself to the span of human history. Butter moves cooks to wax eloquent and gives comfort to the dying. But why is it so good? It's like a miracle. Inexplicable yet redemptive.
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