September 16, 2014
An ice cream diva? I had never met one, until I met one.
I am as attached as anyone to lingering childhood memories connected to ice cream. That attachment is in the very fabric of our American society. It is woven into the lives of most Americans from childhood on, beginning with birthday parties and picnics, and summer nights when the ice cream truck played its tune coming through the neighborhood.
In my adulthood, whenever I am in my vehicle and waiting at a pedestrian walk and see a person walking across the street eating an ice cream cone, I know that person, at that moment, has not a care in the world. I have even found an occasion to insert this little revery in one or other of my novels.
But my sister-in-law carries her fervor for ice cream a step further. When she enters an ice cream parlor and approaches the glass counter and the clerk comes close, she says, “Are you an ice cream lover?” If the response is no, she says, “Then you may not wait on me.”
Now that’s an Ice Cream Diva.