In the midst of the Brett Kavanaugh “I believe him, no I believe her, wait, check his 36-year-old calendar” firestorm that continues to dominate our nation’s discourse, there emerged an astute observation, via my Facebook feed, about a more genial subject.
Courtesy of Chicago actor and filmmaker Paul Traynor, an occasional co-worker over the past 20 years, the post dealt with a food item that, even though I’m writing this column in the early Sunday morning hours, I suddenly crave.
Ice cream.
“As all of our cultural and social norms are being dismantled around us, it seems there is still at least one social precept that is sacrosanct: If you are walking around with ice cream, you have a civic duty to tell people where you got it,” Traynor wrote.
So true.
What is it about that frozen dairy delight that elicits a Pavlovian response when we encounter someone else eating it or, in extreme cases, simply discussing it? When I see someone approaching me while gorging on a slice of pizza, I don’t immediately seek out the nearest pizzeria and order up one for myself. Usually, I think, “Dude, get a napkin.” The same goes for hot dogs, french fries, candy bars or most other “walkable” foods. Confession: I have asked strangers where they got their Starbucks, but coffee for me is not a treat. Rather, a lifeline.
But ice cream? Different story. Several years ago, in between performances at Zanies, a well-known Chicago comedy club, I strolled up and down Wells Street, always a hotbed of activity on a warm summer evening. Unlike the last few times I played the club, I encountered several passersby, all quickly licking cones or furiously shoveling spoonfuls of ice cream into their mouths, before the late evening humidity turned their purchases to mush. Finally, I could take it no more, stopping a couple mid-lick.
“What’s with the ice cream?” I asked. “And where did you get it?”
“Down there,” they replied simultaneously, both gesturing with one hand, while balancing their concoctions with the other.
“There” was Cold Stone Creamery, where, as I craned my neck over the line of patrons that spilled out the door, employees with large spoons were madly mashing ice cream on frozen granite stones, occasionally adding entire Oreo cookies; a far cry from the cookie flecks I see when ordering my favorite flavor, cookies and cream, at other establishments.
Calculating the crowd size and the amount of time it took to complete a single order, I knew I’d have to return later, lest the patrons at the 9 p.m. show wanted to see an empty stage when my name was announced. My kids became instant Cold Stone fans, but its hefty price kept them from requesting it every time they saw someone eating ice cream. The soft serve machines at McDonald’s had to suffice.
Despite my repeated pledges to avoid desserts and sweet treats, ice cream gets me every time. While walking back to my hotel in Knoxville, Iowa, this past summer, already full from a Mexican dinner, I happened upon a father and son, both with cones in hand. I immediately wilted.
“Looks delicious,” I hinted.
“Kone Korner, two blocks down on the right,” the father said, anticipating my question.
I felt the tacos in my stomach shift, thereby creating room for a single scoop cone. Or maybe a double.
Kone Korner had one of those walk-up counters that didn’t require stepping inside the establishment. It looked like Marty McFly, the lead character in Back to the Future, could skateboard by at any moment. Meanwhile, about a dozen Iowans happily sat on benches, licking away while discussing, as I eavesdropped, non-controversial topics such as impending rainy weather, the start of a new high school year and the chances of its football team, the Panthers. No mention of politically-charged issues that turn friends into combatants in seconds.
Such is the power of ice cream. America, let’s all have a scoop.
