Creamed chipped beef seems to be something you grew up with and like, or don’t. I grew up with it. When I was little and my mother was divorced and broke, we would have Stouffer’s creamed chipped beef for dinner on toast.
As I got older, it became one of my favorite comfort foods. I used to think this was very odd because I didn’t know anyone else who ate creamed chipped beef, but then one of my cousins told me that she too loved it. She would buy Stouffer’s and eat it by herself because her husband wouldn’t touch it.
When G. and I were in Michigan a couple of weeks ago, we had breakfast at Rosie’s restaurant in New Buffalo. They have creamed chipped beef on the menu.
“Creamed chipped beef!” I exclaimed.
“What?” G. said.
I pointed to the item.
“SOS?” he asked.
I read, “SOS — creamed chipped beef. I love that. My mom does too. And my cousin Jennifer. It’s a family thing.”
“Is that what they call shit on a shingle?”
“We call it creamed chipped beef,” I said primly.
“But SOS, that’s shit on a shingle.”
Sometimes, G. doesn’t know when to give it a rest. I changed the subject with, “What are you ordering?”
He had blueberry pancakes. I had creamed chipped beef. Rosie’s version was much creamier than the Stouffer’s. I suspect the restaurant actually uses cream instead of milk to make the white sauce. It was probably about 2,000 calories of deliciousness. I loved every bite.
Later I texted my mother, “In Michigan. Had creamed chipped beef and blue moon ice cream.”
She replied, “Don’t like blue moon. Am jealous of creamed chipped beef.”