We all scream
for ice cream
But there are few mistakes worse than assuming a trip out for ice cream can be a fun, happy family activity. Why parents make this assumption is a mystery, given that even when your kids eat ice cream in a controlled environment — a.k.a., your own house — it winds up all over them, the furniture, the dogs and in crevasses unknown to you, where it will later be carried off in individual drops by hungry ants.
I say this because I took my family out to an ice cream stand recently; I knew I’d made a mistake as soon as I saw the price list, which indicated a state of serious unrest in the world’s ice cream producing nations. Apparently ice cream at these stands is more expensive because it is “homemade,” by which they seem to mean, “not made in New Jersey.”
They do, however, try to make up for the price by inflating the size of the portions. It’s as if they’re saying, “This may have cost a lot, but keep in mind it took an entire herd of cows working weeks on end to produce your single small vanilla fudge ripple.” The portions become almost comical when they’re balanced precariously on top of cones that have been designed to hold approximately one-eighth the amount — cone engineers who frequent these places must feel like the guy who designed the Titanic.
To wit, on this particular day my 4-year-old daughter had a “small” vanilla cone that was approximately the size of her head; that she was even able to hold it aloft seemed to undermine all known laws of physics. I can only imagine how big a “large” would be, but of course no one’s ever ordered one — we’re all afraid the ice cream would have to be dropped into the cone from a front end loader.
Anyway, my daughter’s small ice cream almost immediately began tilting sideways in what appeared to be an effort to achieve a 90-degree angle. After initial licking on her part proved futile, my wife and I were forced to take turns lapping wildly in an attempt to stave off the advance. This is like trying to halt a glacier by blowing soap bubbles at it.
Meanwhile, my son decided this would be a good time to toddle off (as toddlers do) and greet each and every one of the other ice cream eaters crammed into the small ice cream eating area. I was forced to follow him around as he pointed at every cone and cup in the place, declaring “AH!” like Hercule Poirot ticking off important clues.
This left my wife alone to deal with the Leaning Tower of Vanilla, which by now was threatening to overtake my daughter’s entire torso. Meanwhile, the ice cream we had bought for ourselves was melting furiously on the table; why we even bought it is another mystery, given we haven’t been able to finish an entire food product uninterrupted since sometime in 1999.
Hundreds of napkins later we finally made it home, soggy but unbowed — and granted, the kids had fun on their ice cream outing. Still, I made a pledge to make ice cream a takeout activity from now on, so we can clean up after any mishaps in the privacy of our own house.
That is, if we had any brooms.