There are a few things in life that almost everyone can agree upon. One of those universal pleasures is ice cream. For the moment, dismiss allergies and lactose intolerance, disregard the calories, and the swim suit you want to strut in, and bring to the fore the pure pleasure of that cold, creamy, treat.
It doesn’t matter what your religion, race, or creed. Ages from six months to a hundred and six years can indulge in its pleasure. What better way to eat fruit than on top of a bowl of ice cream? For that matter, you can also imbibe a sweet liquor by drizzling it over a vanilla treat. A touch of Kahula or Chambord cause one to lick their lips with pure hedonistic delight.
Ice cream rarely fails to make you smile. Can you even imagine a bad guy harassing you while they were busy licking an ice cream cone? Have you witnessed the most conservative adult trying to catch a drip of chocolate with their tongue as it runs from cone, to hand, to wrist, and finally to elbow? Not only have I witnessed it, I’ve done it. Not the least bit ashamed of that. I really like ice cream.
Before I became so concerned about weight, and health, I ate a lot of ice cream. I can recall going to Howard Johnson’s for banana splits. Three flavors, vanilla, chocolate, and strawberry on a whole banana, topped with whipped cream, nuts, chocolate fudge, and three cherries. This concoction was about 3000 calories, and I ate it all up.
The Spumoni Gardens in Brooklyn was like going to the Waldorf when I was a newly wed. Who even noticed the sticky tables, or the leaded gasoline fumes as you sat on the sidewalk near the El digging into a massive Ice Cream Float. I’m salivating as I type.
All this brings to mind visiting an old aunt living in Staten Island. I was a child at the time and her home was really a trek from Manhattan. We didn’t have a car and relied on her son-in-law to pick us up. The aunt, that is what everyone called her, was all of four feet two inches, with cotton spun, white hair piled in a bun on top her head. She lived with her daughter’s family. This tiny woman was my Grandmother‘s aunt and the one who first housed my Grandfather and Grandmother when they arrived from Italy.
During this visit I found her fascinating, I was about ten at the time. The aunt, spoke very little, she never did learn English and since my father didn’t speak Italian, he was Greek, she was shy with him. But when he ventured out to return with gallons of ice cream, she was delighted. The aunt became more animated than I had ever seen her. For perhaps the first time, I got to see the incredible effect of that yummy substance.
What brings to mind these memories of ice cream? I just heard the Mr. Softie Truck jingle. Gotta go now and have a decadent bowl of Neapolitan Spumoni. Feeling blue? Get yourself some Ice Cream. “I scream, you scream, We all scream for ice cream!