That One Chick #10
Warning: This is not a recipe. Repeat. This is not a recipe.
What’s your favorite flavor of ice cream? It fluctuates around here depending on my mood. But when I was little–before I was old enough to think straight, up until I was about 12, my very favorite–the only flavor I’d eat, in fact–was Orange Sherbet. That’s it.
Back in those days–the coolest place on earth–for ice cream lovers was Sears because they had an ice cream parlor out back. My brother Andy would get Pistachio, my sister Laurie would get Chocolate or Rocky Road, and I of course, chose Orange Sherbet. Always and forever.
So picture this—
One day, when I was about 5, Laurie and I went with dad to Sears and even though he was in a huge hurry–we held out hope that there would still be time for a quick trip to the ice cream shop. At first he said there was no way but then he changed his mind. The second the ice cream was handed to us he said we really had to run or he’d be late to an appointment. So he grabbed a hold of us–one on either side of him–and started running through the store to the other side parking lot where our car was parked.
Oh, now–please understand–we were hauling. Dad had us each by the hand and we really had to run to keep up with him. I hadn’t even had a lick of my ice cream, in fact, the harder I tried to taste the darn thing, the more my poor cone hand flailed out to my side…uncontrollably.
Now, see the sweet little old couple coming towards us. Smiling, happy, serene, unsuspecting.
dun. dun. dun.
Feel it coming?
Yeah. Here we go.
The couple approaches on the right side…my side…the side with my arm flailing around…you know…the cone side.
As the couple passed us, suddenly…my cone was miraculously…um…lighter somehow…almost…empty feeling.
We were tearing through the place at quite a clip but I managed to turn my head just in time to see the old lady shrieking her head off in the aisle. All she could say was, “Oh! Oh! Oh!”
There, smashed on the skirt of her dress was the entire top scoop of my perfect Orange Sherbet cone.
I imagine we should have offered to help, or found her a napkin, or called the authorities or something. But Daddy-O never knew it even happened–and I was just a kid.
By the time we got to the car he looked down at me and said, “Hey…How’d you ever finish that ice cream so fast?”
I think I may have started giggling. Can’t quite remember.
I just hope she enjoyed the most perfect ice cream cone on earth. Heaven knows, I never even got a lick.
