I Scream, You Scream

Labor Day weekend is just a few days away and that can only mean one thing. (Well, two things if you count the 'can't wear white after' nonsense). It means that ice cream season is almost over.

I don't know about you but I don't have a whole lot of interest in ingesting frozen confections when it's 12 degrees outside. Once those hot summer nights give way to blustery winter hibernation, I comfort myself with warm chocolate chip cookies and a cup of tea instead of a sundae. Somehow, dodging icicles outside has a way of shutting down my desire for fudgsicles when I'm inside.

But tonight, it's still August. It was still warm enough to walk around town after dinner. I wasn't going to pass up one of the remaining opportunities to enjoy a frosty treat. Lucky for me, I didn't have to have to settle for ice cream; our town has a gelato shop. Yes, I know. I'm addicted to anything Italian but, c'mon, I don't care how American you are, comparing ice cream to gelato is like comparing a Mitsubishi to a Mercedes. If you've had it before, you know what I'm talking about. If you haven't, what are you waiting for?

I'll have you know, I did behave myself. I got a small cup filled with a strawberry and raspberry combo. (The fruit flavors are definitely where gelato has it all over ice cream). As my husband and I wandered through the town, dipping our tiny plastic spoons into each others' flavors (I know, that sounds a little dirty), I tried to soak in the waning hours of this 27th day of August.

Summer's almost over. I've got a few more flavors to try before I'm ready to say good-bye.

Follow That Truck?

The experts say that our sense of smell is our greatest trigger of memories. While I can't disagree that the aroma of freshly-baked chocolate chip cookies does ship me back in time to my Nana's kitchen or that cutting a fresh lemon does transport me back to the Amalfi Coast, I still think the ring of an old familiar song is the closest thing to a Time Machine voyage we human beings are ever going to experience. The song definitely remembers when - especially when the chimes of Turkey in the Straw (or as I know it, Do Your Ears Hang Low?) pierce the humid, summer air.

The ice cream man wasn't always a rip-off. When I was a kid (okay, be ready to be very jealous), The Good Humor Truck was the only game in town. The drivers in the crisp, white shirts delivered yummy, chemical-free treats to you and two of your best friends for less than a dollar. He didn't have a song then, just a bell; a bell that had every kid in the neighborhood salivating every bit as much as Pavlov's dog. The instant gratification of running to that truck with a pocketful of quarters and coming away with a frosty treat was the best. I tried my best to recreate the memory for my own kids but by that time, Good Humor ice cream was found in every grocery store and never tasted as good as it did when it was dripping down your arm while you were standing on the curb - not that I ever heard them complain.

Now that the independently owned ice cream trucks employ a song you can't get out of your head and serve $2.50 vanilla flavored, imitation chocolate-covered ice cream bars, I can't help feeling sorry for today's kids. It must be a tough sell trying to convince their moms to pony up the cost of a steak dinner for a handful of Popsicles.

But, there's no denying, there's something powerful about that damn song. Like a cobra popping out of that basket when his turbaned master picks up his flute, I've been close to jumping out of my car and tracking down that pied piper more than a few times and I haven't had a child looking up at me for more than fifteen years.

So maybe it doesn't matter that it's expensive. Maybe it doesn't matter if the quality isn't as good. Maybe all that matters is that it's part of your childhood - a part I know I'll want to share someday with my grandchildren.

I just hope I can afford those $10 Fudgesicles.