Louie Bloo Raspberry

According to a quick Google search, the summer season officially begins in late June and ends in late September. Being from the arid city of Phoenix, Arizona, I and many other locals have a bone to pick with those dates.

For Phoenicians, summer begins once the temperatures consistently hit over 100 degrees Fahrenheit. Over the past few years, that usually happens in early May. There’s no denying how overwhelming the dry heat of the desert is and the general consensus is that every year feels worse than the last -- which isn’t always the case, but it sure feels that way. Our monsoons bring miles-long dust storms which are an intense and surreal experience. The red rock landscape glows bright crimson every night at sunset against a pink-tinged sky, silhouetting dozens of cacti and sloping mountains in the background.

The seasonal sights are breathtaking enough to have become quintessential to Arizona. Unfortunately, part and parcel of the summer beauty are the bone-scorching temperatures. Every year, we’re faced with the kind of heat that cooks eggs on sidewalks, that weaponizes seat belt buckles and steering wheels, that somehow always takes us locals by surprise.

It’s a blanketing heat that can only be escaped with my favorite summer snack as a child: Otter Pops. Specifically the blue ones.

I never knew what actual flavor the blue ones were (spoiler alert: they’re Louie Bloo Raspberry) and I never cared, because they also turned my tongue blue. My entire summers revolved around playing outside, getting too hot, then running to my grandmother for an Otter Pop.

I had no qualms about guzzling down a good half-dozen of those bad boys at a time, but there was nothing better than racing back outside with a freezing armful of Otter Pops to share with my friends. Their faces would always light up and we’d spend the next ten minutes in silence, savoring the frozen sticks of sugar until they were gone or melted enough for us to chug. Those treats were a summertime commodity and I’ve never attained more of a celebrity status than when I was handing out a rainbow of icy treats to my neighborhood peers.

Sometimes I would get stuck with other staple flavors, like Sir Alexander the Grape or everyone’s least favorite Little Orphan Orange (sorry, Grandma, for all of the Orange Otter Pops I gave you on the rare occasions that you wanted one). I vividly remember wondering -- as a child -- if this was how Bill Gates or Mother Teresa felt, though I certainly wasn’t changing any lives by sharing my favorite snack with others.

Except for my own.

It taught me a great deal of empathy and compassion at a young age. For the majority of my upbringing, I was an only child so sharing something that I loved with others was exciting.

One time in particular, my little arms carried out the last of the Otter Pops from the icebox. We were short by one, which I discovered after handing them out and only having one left. I had the greedy instinct to say “sorry” and keep it for myself, but somehow the thought of this single person being bereft of the icy, fruity goodness in my hand pained me viscerally.

We ended up splitting the Otter Pop in half, which felt like a very important compromise in my life up to that point. I can recall how much more enjoyable that shared moment was than if I had merely slurped down the treat while in front of her.

Now, it seems silly just how impactful cheap bags of frozen sugar water were on me, but those summer treats stuck with me through my adolescence and teen years. Even when I moved away from those friends to a different part of Phoenix, or when it was just me and my mom in an apartment living off of ramen and Otter Pops, they were always a summertime staple. Despite the brain freezes, the occasional cavity, and bouts of acne in my teen years, I would always reach for a Pop once the temperatures hit 100 degrees. They’re refreshing and cool on your tongue, somehow managing to revitalize you after the sun has sapped your energy.

Otter Pops -- blue or otherwise -- make for the perfect summer experience.