I’m not traditionally much of an ice cream person. I’d usually rather scarf something naughty and savoury, given the chance. But sometimes, the idea of ice cream is like life itself, like a beam of light that shines through the clouds while some sort of god-like creature looks down and thunders: Eat This Creation.
I had lunch with a friend today, my oldest one, with whom I caught guppies in the creek below her house, buried a time capsule at the turn of the millenium, obsessed about boys before either of us had ever been kissed, and jumped off her garage roof.
She’s now married and has spat out a kid, a gorgeous little peach called Michael who’s given her the sort of hell that only a six monther can dish out on a first time mum.
We chewed over life and Vietnamese food, championing my newly adopted vegetarianism with tofu and prawns (fine, I’m still eating seafood – give me a minute to adjust!). Feeling not yet stuffed, we ambled down to the nearby ice creamery and joined the queue of families, young kids and teens still dripping from pool parties in their backyards.
Here, the fun began.
This is the sort of ice creamery where you not only order ice cream, but also things which can be crushed into it. Wondrous things, like fudge, Tim Tams, jellies, brownies, chocolate bars and syrupy fruit. I imagine that the god-like creature mentioned above would call in the help of an entire herald of angels, miniature cheruby babies and rainbowed doves to proclaim the joys of this treat.
Mine was white chocolate ice cream slash caramel fudge huddled next to a Caramello Koala smashed into Milo ice cream. In a waffle cone. My eyes lit up like a five year old’s upon beholding it.
Ate it.
Happy.
