April 13, 2005

Pronoun screaming for ice cream

By
Herald Editor

      T.S. Eliot spoke of April being the cruelest month - that happens when you get a Tutti Fruity brain freeze.
      I scream. You scream. We all scream for spring ice cream. But it's a good kind of pain. Even lactose intolerant Uncle Sal gets a little giddy this time of year.
      Spring is in the air: you can smell the waffle cones and blue dye #10. Sure the fair- weather robin has returned and the Tigers still have a shot at the World Series - mathematically speaking. However, nothing is official until the first hand-dipped Rocky Road cone.
      Now you can eat Mint Chocolate Chip by the half-gallon in January, but it doesn't taste the same. After all, no one comes in from snow blowing the driveway and says "Hey, who wants to go to Tastee Freeze?" Good luck getting a key to Dairyville in the dead of winter - from the mayor, city council or a Lollipop Guild representative.
      Vanilla extract hope springs eternal this time of year, both for biters and lickers.
      Ice cream eaters usually fall into one of these consumer categories. Biters tend to be aggressive, stay-ahead-of-the drip personalities. Lickers are laid-back, go-with-the-Neapolitan flow types. A biter would order a triple scoop of no-nonsense chocolate in a sugar cone just for the challenge. On the other hand, or perhaps with both, a licker is willing to take more licks than Tonya Harding in a boxing ring.
      Overall, I'd classify myself a licker. Although the dog days of summer can turn anyone into a rabid biter.
      Spring ice cream should be savored; a just dessert for old man winter overstaying his welcome. Even the single scoops seem bigger before the tourists hit town. You can take your time ordering an ice cream cone without snide asides from parents losing their cool - not to mention grip on their over-sugared shin kickers.
      In my hyperactive youth, loose change could buy one big scoop of Blue Moon happiness.
      For 65 cents, the Hale Ice Cream Shop dished out a single the size of Donald Trump's ego. You could always tell the downstate Baskin-Robbins types who insisted on ordering a triple scoop despite warnings from the ice cream shop staff. No lie, these ice cream cones came wrapped in a building permit instead of a napkin.
      As a kid, my choice ice cream flavors were Blue Moon, Superman and Bubble Gum. Strangely, I also liked Dutch Apple, which typically requires an AARP card to purchase. The reason why I liked the first three was simple: sticking out a Blue Moon tongue at my sister while riding in the back of dad's 1979 Buick LeSabre.
      Sadly, I dropped an entire Superman ice cream cone on the backseat of said Buick. Thankfully, white leather was not an available interior option. Unfortunately, the same could not be said of an 8-track player.
      Vowing not to make the same mistakes as my parents, Boots Randolph 8-tracks and Superman ice cream are not allowed in the minivan. However, a bit of pronoun screaming is permitted.
      Grand Traverse Herald editor Garret Leiva can be reached at 933-1416 or e-mail gleiva@gtherald.com