My Dessert is a Decepticon!

Puddin' Pops in Disguise

Yes, it’s another Weekend Bonus Post, because apparently I can’t go an entire week without complaining about something…

So you know what used to really rankle me as a kid? Bait 'n' Switch sweets. You'd be stuck sitting on the couch next to "Aunt Claire" every Thanksgiving while the Dads were out on the patio "talking" (i.e., drinking), and the Moms were in the kitchen "getting dinner ready" (i.e., actually getting dinner ready. Also drinking), and there was nothing to do because the TV was in the den and nothing to talk about because she's 80. Then, after a long silence that felt brutal even though it was probably no more than ten minutes because that's like three hours in kid years, she'd ask if you'd "like some candy? But don't tell your Mother" and you'd get excited, thinking she's about to sneak you a Three Musketeers Bar, or at least a Cinnamon Hot Ball Jawbreaker, and instead she roots around in her purse and pulls out a cellophane-wrapped hard candy that tastes like a shellacked mothball. And it would happen every Thanksgiving, but because you'd be so antsy and hungry and uncomfortable in your itchy wool slacks and clip-on tie, you'd fall for it, every time.

Then eventually you and your cousins became teenagers and you discovered the bottom drawer of the breakfront where Grandpa hid the airline bottles of Crown Royal and you'd sneak off to the garage to spike your Tab and feel like you're entitled to it after all those years spent babysitting Aunt Claire. But then, right around your sophomore year in high school you get dragged to her funeral and discover that she's not actually your aunt, she's your great-uncle's mother-in-law, so the joke's on you.

Or even worse: it's a hot, humid summer night, and you've just finished picking at your mother's spécialité de la maison, "Salmon Patties" (canned salmon formed into vague hamburger shapes, scorched to a blacktop-like crust on the outside, cold and pink on the inside), and she decides—perhaps because she can't stand that look of numb resignation on your face anymore—to treat you and your sister to some ice cream. The both of you get excited and think, "Yay, we're going to Wil Wright's! I'm gonna get the deluxe hot fudge sundae! Or maybe she'll take us to Swenson's, for the home-made bubble gum-flavored ice cream in a sugar cone. Or even Thrifty's Drug Store for the mint chocolate chip...!"

Then she opens up the freezer and pulls out a carton of Big Dip Ice Milk.

Let me say that again…

Ice. Milk.

But you know what? Any of that—Aunt Claire’s fossilized ribbon candy, the artificial ice milk—would be preferable to this home remedy for joy:

Strawberry Salad Pops. Say what you like about my mother's bargain-basement taste in frozen confections, at least she never forced this abomination on us. Probably because it would have required more time and effort than it took to upend a can of salmon into a skillet and bring it to a dental record-ready char.

HOW TO MAKE POPS TOPS

Or, How to Get Your Own Offspring to Report You to Child Protective Services.

Frozen Salad Pops have a terrific taste when you make them with one-of-a-kind MIRACLE WHIP Salad Dressing.

As truth in advertising goes, I can't actually dispute this claim.

It has the flavor and smooth, light texture that no one's been able to copy.

Or justify.

10-oz. pkg. frozen strawberries, thawed
1/2 cup MIRACLE WHIP Salad Dressing
1 cup heavy cream, whipped
2 cups KRAFT Miniature Marshmallows

Gradually add strawberries to salad dressing, mixing until well blended. Fold in whipped cream and miniature marshmallows. Spoon approximately 1/2 cup of mixture into 5-oz. paper drinking cups. Insert wooden sticks; freeze until firm. 8 servings.

After eating, kids can save the wooden stick for a fun game: Tickle Your Own Gag Reflex and see who can puke it back up first!

Okay, I retract the crack about Child Protective Services. Here's a quarter, kid; call The Hague.