“Do you have maple walnut?” My eyes hopefully glance down at the colorful array of ice cream tubs.
“Um, no…we usually sell it only during the summer.” The guy behind the counter grimaces apologetically, as if my five-foot-three frame could actually reach over and give him a good whap over the head. (It can’t.)
“What? Why?”
“…”
He doesn’t answer, probably because my voice has gone up a solid octave with indignation, so I raise my eyebrows and wait.
“My boss says it’s kind of…an old person flavor?” The resigned truth is tactfully posed as a question.
I am devastated. The magical sweetness and light complexity of true maple syrup, coupled with the earthy, nutty, toastiness of a multitude of walnuts? Not an option in Secaucus, NJ, in the dead of winter with a foot of snow outside, apparently.
“But,” adds the counter guy, perking up, “we do have a new flavor called Strawberry Chocolate Oreo. Want to try?”
No, I do not want to try. (Plus, I’m allergic to wheat.) Ice cream is one of the last vestiges of a life made simple. Cream. Milk. Sugar. Vanilla, chocolate, strawberries. Nuts if you were feeling adventurous. Now, even this ceases to be the norm as shelves are increasingly stocked with “frozen dairy dessert,” meaning there isn’t enough butterfat in the liquid base to be legally deemed “ice cream.” Gums, stabilizers, flavor enhancers, and artificial colorings and flavors are all added in a largely futile attempt to gain back the texture and mouthfeel provided by real cream.
New flavors materialize on a daily basis (avocado-chocolate-lime, anyone?) without really providing consumers the quality they deserve. They are what bubblegum radio pop is to the snot-nosed, overeager punks in the nineties who were (not-so-secretly) guitar nerds at heart. What could be something new is, in fact, molded to be merely formulaic, and consequently becomes more than a trifle boring.
These thoughts pile into my mind as I awkwardly stand there, biting my lip. I should have made a decision by now, certainly. Now I’m that weirdo who takes forever to choose, despite the fact that it’s just ice cream, and somehow mentally end up thinking that I now represent the mockery that is a First World Problem. All this makes me feel at once frustrated and melancholy, and also slightly desperate.
“I guess I’ll just take the butter pecan, then. A small, please.” I lament, eying the tub, but inwardly approving of its obvious lack of artificial coloring.
“You know,” counter guy muses as he muscles out ice cream, “butter pecan is kind of an old person flavor, too.”
Gee, thanks so much.
My mood is significantly improved when a magnificently generous portion of Mike’s homemade ice cream is handed to me moments later. It looks good. It smells legitimate. The plastic spoon is no match for the rich density that only comes from heavy cream and a good ice cream machine. I take a bite.
HOLY FREAKING CANNOLI WHAT SORCERY IS THIS?
This is actually my first (coherent) thought. This is not ice cream. This cannot simply be cream, milk, sugar, and buttered pecans. This is magic. This is what heaven would taste like, if heaven could be spun into precarious tangibility before being eaten with a half-bent spoon.
In life, there are Befores and there are Afters. Before you were born, versus After you were born. Big difference! This ice cream is the same way. It changed my life. It changed my life more than the people on the subway, people who are, you know, actual sentient beings with the power to alter the world as we know it. It is not a flavor for the doddering elderly population. It is a flavor with enough gumption to stand up to a real ice cream cynic and emerge victorious.
There are things in this world that come and go, only to resurface, better than ever. Weezer’s 1996 Pinkerton and George Clooney are marvelous examples. Trends and fads, they’re splashy and loud and bright, with clever hooks or snappy choruses. They get overplayed on the radio for about two months, then disappear. Kind of like magic.
Classics? Maybe they were despised at first. Maybe they flopped and flailed around the charts like a lovesick Magikarp. They stick around though, persistently encouraging and always delicious, with an old-school nostalgia that bubbles up and manages to catch you off guard.
I don’t know about you, but that still sounds like magic.
