Paula, Paula, Paula

I like food experts who give me recipes that are accessible, meaning I don't have to try to figure out what foie gras or truffle oil is, where I can buy them, and how I can finance the purchase before I can proceed in making supper.

Paula Deen fits the accessible bill to a T. She is cute, sweet, and has that oh-so-charming accent. And, if I have at least a pound of butter in the house, I know I'm halfway to getting most of her dishes on the dinner table*.

But, were I to attempt a new recipe of hers everyday for say, 30 days, I'd have the makings of "Super Size Me" for Generations X, Y, and Z. Basically, I'd be too big for gastric bypass OR a coffin, but I'd be somewhere in between needing one of the two of those things.

Which leads me to admitting that I enjoyed one of Paula's recipes, courtesy of my lovely sister-in-law, over New Year's Weekend.

I KNOW, to the marrow of my bones, when someone places something ooey-gooey-yummy in front of me and says "It's a Paula Deen recipe", that I am completely, utterly, hosed.

Not only is it going to clog my arteries, give me gas, and make me wish I had some semblance of restraint, but it is also going to be irresistible and whisper my name until I've finished every last bit of it.

Enter "French Cream".

Sounds exotic, creamy and fattening, YES? Sounds like it should belong on cake or pie or waffles, doesn't it?

But, wait! This is a horse of a troubling color. A shyster. A man disguised as a woman imitating a man. It's a fruit dip. Which, for me, is WAY worse than the cream being connected to a piece of double chocolate cake or a Belgian waffle.

Why, you ask? Because it starts with fruit. The stuff of Adam and Eve. The bastion of good sugar and tummy-filling fiber. One of the few things on Weight Watchers that has little or no points. Fruit is basically like eating for free!

But, when you add Paula to the equation, little bites of fruit become lethal.

"French Cream", it turns out, is a delightful concoction of cream cheese, LOTS of sugar, too much whipping cream, and a little lemon and pineapple juice.

It is remarkably light tasting, especially before you are privy to the recipe. Literally, pre-Goggle look-up, I was all "DUDE! I could eat my weight in apple strips with this dip as the wing man."

The recipe though? Caused my wing man to eject and fall crashing to Earth in a bloody heap of shame.

So tomorrow I have the unenviable task of killing the extra two cups of dip that remain in my refrigerator. I'm not sure if I'll use the "scalding hot water straight in the container" move or the "three points for making it into the garbage can" trick or the "one for me, one for you" act, where I put one tablespoon in the sink and one in my mouth, in an attempt to calm that voice screaming "There are children in poor countries that would give anything for a taste of French Cream".

Whatever I choose to do, Lady Paula is out the door in the morning.

Sadly, my body's souvenir of her time with me, those oh-so-attractive bumps and dimples and lumps, will be with me for many, many, many moons to come.


*I just want to run to her kitchen and scream "USE ME!!!" every time I see her on TV.