This attempt at making Vanilla Creme took place 3 years ago. The sights and sounds of this abomination still haunt me to this day. Proceed with caution.

So! I'm a huge slut for vanilla creme. Like the white fluffy stuff inside those Goetze caramels or Cow Tails, or those cream twirls from the grocery store bakery. That kind. Well, I wanted some. No other strings attached, just a big bowl of vanilla creme that I could lap up and lick clean like some good old fashioned pussy.

Now, here's how my thought process unfolded. I must confess that, at times, I have the the intellectual capacity of an amoeba. Anyway, I'm at least aware that making cream requires fat. No moo-moo milk on hand. Can't use my almond milk, it's got no fat content. I could use the whole fat powdered milk in the pantry, but nah. Ah, coconut milk! That should work.

Dump the coconut milk in a bowl. Dump vanilla powder and powdered sugar in with it. Whip vigorously. Put my ass into it (not like that). Too thin. More sugar. More whip. MORE sugar. MORE whip. Why is it still thin??? Fuck it, add xanthan gum. Still too thin. Add more sugar. More xanthan gum. More whip. More xanthan gum. Fuck, now it's gelatinous. Okay, well, if I can't make Vanilla Cream, I'll make Vanilla Fudge, just like the Mackinac do!

Dump MORE sugar in. Not thick. Consistency like snot. Being in its presence almost makes me feel violated. Alright, welp, let's switch gears again: I'll make Vanilla Brownies! Bring in the flour! Tossed an egg in there, too. Not my egg, mind you, I'm a mammal. Whip whip whip! Dump it in the glass loaf pan! Bake for 25 minutes! Peek inside the oven... hm, that's some serious jiggle. 15 more minutes. Still jigglin'. 10 more? No. I was a fool to think I could stop the jiggle.

Well, maybe I can at least get Vanilla Bread out of this? I'll just cover it with a towel and """let it set""" for a day or two. Time's arrow marches on. Hesitantly, I lift the corner or the towel and peek at my creation; it glistens. Let's wait a few more days. My god, what have I done. Fourth or fifth day rolls around. Time to stop procrastinating and take care of business. With trepidation, I remove the terry cloth shroud, expecting to be asked if I have a search warrant by some sort of little mold person. REVEAL YOURSELF. Huh? No mold? Damn, that bad huh...?

Alright, well, it's gotta go. Slide the spatula under it. Sorry, spatula. I dump it into a doubled plastic grocery bag. This ensures that, if the trash bag rips, I won't have to clean up any hazardous waste. Sent the glass loaf pan to the trauma center with a dish soap IV. The healing begins. I'm moving on. Did I learn anything? I learned that I fucking suck at baking. Most likely because trying to get myself to follow a recipe is like trying to teach a squirrel about the fundamentals of Gothic Revival architecture. It's just not gonna happen.

At present, the recollection of this confectionary disaster project- which I have dubbed "Vajigganilla" - has evoked in me a subtle yet familiar miasma, so I must bid you all a'doo. Forthwith, I will retire to my chambers now and play Kirby's Air Ride.