My Papa is the first person I knew who thought so highly of ice cream that he dedicated large areas of his freezer to it. Never once have I visited my grandparents’ home to find that their freezer lacked something cold, sweet and creamy. They loved to go out to dinner and it was a regular occasion for my family to join them. On many evenings, we'd return to their house, stomachs distended with pasta, chicken, salad and bread, having to practically shove each other through the doorway, lest we get stuck.
"Oh," we'd complain. "I am so full! Why did I eat so much?"
Papa was always in agreement. That is, on the way to the freezer. Whoosh, would go the little white door, and amid the clouds of icy smoke floating into the kitchen, out the ice cream would come. Magically a pile of bowls, a stack of nesting spoons, jars half-filled with maraschino cherries and fudge, would appear on the table. Nuts would be crushed, bananas sliced. We'd scoop, pour, scrape and slurp as though we hadn't just been bursting at the seams. It always went down in such a lovely way, our ice cream with Papa. Part of the reason, I believe, is because he enjoyed it so thoroughly. His bliss rubbed off on us.
When Papa was in the hospital dying of cancer, he fell into a state which kept him sleeping much of the time. The last time I saw him alive, I bent down even with his face and asked him if I could get him anything. His eyes closed, he said no, not really. But I had to get him something, this man I desperately loved whom I was about to leave for the last time. I went to the cafeteria and bought him a cup of ice cream. I took it up to his room and like a very small child, he ate the tiny spoonfuls I offered. It was vanilla with nuts and chocolate, but I avoided the trimmings and just fed him the ice cream, which I let soften on the spoon. He lay on his side in his bed and as I presented each spoonful, he took it and smiled. I don't know that he ever ate ice cream again.
Before my memories of ice cream at Bubbie and Papa’s house came the summer night when my parents said, “Let’s go for an ice cream,” and threw me in the car, pajama-clad and thrilled at this last-minute prospect. We sat three abreast in the front seat, four if you count the huge bulge of my sister still within my mother. Our massive Pontiac cruised Woodward Avenue, ending at the place where my mother, without having to ask, would bring me a tall, chocolate spire resting on the flat, crunchy cone I so loved. I would lick until the ice cream lay even with the cone, then pretend that I held a skating rink for tiny elves, swirling my tongue around on the surface as I imagined they would their infinitesimal skates. I still do that!
My pleasure now lies with taking Madeleine out for ice cream. She loves it as much as I do, and regularly, summer and winter alike, she, David and I find our way to the TCBY or Dairy Queen in our neighborhood, whether on foot, by bike or by car. It has gone beyond treat; it has become necessity. This is a good thing, ice cream being the stuff of life, as I will always be happy to look back and know that I enjoyed it every chance I got.
3 comments:
My mother was one of the original ice cream junkies. She inherited it from her father, a giant in the field of icecreamology. They used to go into town and he'd buy her an impossibly large ice cream and she would gobble it down with abandon.
She was kind enough to turn us all into junkies as well.
Papa used to take me to Saunders and he'd lift me up to sit at the counter and after our tuna or egg salad sandwiches we'd have ice cream. Those were fun days. I hope Papa is eating ice cream right now.
I am salivating right at this moment. We just paid homage to our local DQ!
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