Sins May Be Pardoned with Ice Cream

Because this story is about forgiveness, I'll start off with an apology to my lactose-intolerant friends. I am so incredibly sorry that you cannot partake in this delicious dairy indulgent treat. If it helps at all, you can eat a delectable order of Chinese takeout in front of me while I enjoy my ice cream. I feel your pain with intolerances as I too have one of the soy variety, and hot damn isn't that in nearly everything?! So here's the deal: we can share in jealousy, pleasure, sorrow, and joy all at the same time. Sounds like a good start to a bad romance, am I right? Queue Lady Gaga, "Rah, rah-ah-ah-ah"! Anyway, while you're enjoying your platter of Chinese takeout, let me share my guilty pleasure with you. You can tempt and tease me all you want in return later.

Ah, I had a talent even in youth for spotting the smallest out-of-the-way ice cream shops. I remember traveling over the hilled countryside to visit my dear great-grandmother, who by the way was anything but dear; but, I digress. While my grandmother and grandfather would take me to visit my grandmother's mother, I couldn't wait for summer to come. Summer was when that little country ice cream shop not so far from where my great-grandmother lived was open. I knew it was only open seasonally because I asked my grandparents to take me there a hundred and one times, the poor unfortunate souls; but, because my grandparents also enjoyed ice cream they threw me a bone (or a cone rather) every so often during those hot summer days. Grandma always ordered chocolate, Grandfather a banana split, and I'd order a chocolate and vanilla swirl/twist cone at that particular joint. How much did I enjoy those days at the ice cream shop? Funny you should ask...I now live less than five miles away from it. Cha-ching! That is the sound of their cash register filling with what used to be my money. Oh well, you only live once. Anyway, I became a seasonal customer for life.

My grandparents didn't just take me to see that particular great-grandma; they also took me to see my grandfather's mother. Although she didn't have an ice cream shop close by, she did know how to make hand-churned ice cream. She also introduced me to some at a church revival. Sorry Lord, I don't remember the word that day or the praise and worship music we sang. I just remember the ice cream; homemade, hand-churned, deliciously simple, rich, and creamy vanilla ice cream. It was heavenly. Please forgive my gluttony, but it seems the way to my heart is through my stomach. I'll give the six week home economics class from middle school a little bit of credit for teaching me how to make ice cream in those plastic bags with salt, sugar, ice, and milk; they'll do in a pinch, but they don't come anywhere close to the homemade ice cream she introduced me to.

Now, at a certain age nearly everyone in my family was introduced to sports. I started off with T-ball then went into minor league baseball. Aside from my batting average which was pretty decent, I wasn't particularly good considering I was placed in the outfield and my mind and attention span tended to wander. Where did they wander to, you ask? I bet you guessed it by now; the Dairy Queen. Maybe that was why my batting average was so high; the more hits, the more runs scored, and the higher likelihood we would go to Dairy Queen for an ice cream treat. Oh, yes! I remember the interior and exterior of that Dairy Queen in small town Salem to this day. In fact, I remember far more about my experiences there than I do anything about the baseball games. This was the place I got to experiment: Kool-Aid or cotton candy blizzard, anyone? I'm game. I'm not even a fan of Kool-Aid, but throw in some ice cream and it's a homerun-straight out of the ballpark.

Clearly, I wasn't cut out for sports and eventually my family begrudgingly realized that too. The next best option for extra-curricular activities was band. Despite my choice of instrument, my parents were happy for the new social environment, and often encouraged carpooling with one of our neighbors. He and I weren't super close friends during school hours, but we did have some funny stories together. We even got into trouble on a few occasions in our agricultural science classes for throwing rotten apples at each other and sliming the place with soap suds. Oops! Trust me, he deserved it. Anyway, carpooling to band events was a blast and the more company you have the more on board you can get the driver with your idea. He was a willing accomplice to my crime of ice cream. When we travelled on band events, we were always on the same page when it came to that dairy delicacy. From the time marching season started until that odd late autumn it snowed and froze we got the goods. I vividly remember convincing my dad to let us walk into the nearest McDonalds wearing only our basketball shorts to order ice cream when it was 20 degrees outside. Those band uniforms were way too freaking hot! Despite my dad being the ice cream addict he was, he still thought we were nuts and we brought him back a coffee for compensation instead. And yes, remarkably, the ice cream machine at Mickey D's wasn't broken, so my cohort and I thoroughly enjoyed our ice cream!

About my claims that my dad was an ice cream addict: he was; the only exception being that time at McDonalds, which was why it was such a shocking situation (aside from the ice cream machine actually working). However, I think for the sake of his own morality he indulged us because let's face it; he didn't raise a quitter. I'm not sure if this is a generational curse or a gift, but whatever it is I inherited it. It is definitely genetic, though I suppose you could say it is also behavioral.

Nearly every night, Dad would sit down with a quart and a half of ice cream. He'd finish half of it. You'd think he'd be diabetic or have some sort of health problem, but nope. He worked manual labor all day long every day. He sat down to eat meals or ice cream, and to crash on the couch at around 8 p.m. He'd wake before the sun and move and work all day. Ice cream was a big habit of his (along with pie and beer, which thankfully I didn't inherit or I'd way 500lbs.) If he didn't have his tub of ice cream, he would make a large milkshake-usually with cherry pie filling and whipped cream. Thankfully, he didn't keep the milkshake all to himself like he did the carton of ice cream. Those milkshakes were oh-so-good, and speaking of family traditions he and I made a few similar choices in life.

Toni's was an ice cream shop we'd go to in-town occasionally. They made the best raspberry ice cream ever. Something about who and where their local dairy supplier is rumored to make it that amazing, but whatever it is theirs is the best. I've noticed lately that other places have been introducing the same raspberry flavor, but in my eyes Toni's will always be the original. Dad was always up for ice cream at Toni's. Sometimes the lines would be extra-long, like half an hour plus or so, but we'd wait. We knew the wait was worth it. Ice cream is a commitment. So when my parents decided to move, where did they happen to land? Their new property was less than 5 miles away from Toni's. Do you think it was coincidental or was it the fated ice cream curse? I'll leave you to decide. In the meantime, I'm busy treating myself to the raspberry ice cream from Toni's, which yes, was additional incentive to visit my parents.

Dad had a work anniversary a year or two before he died and was given a list of gifts to select from. My mother was annoyed when she saw the list of options.

"You're going to order that stupid ice cream maker, aren't you?" she said.

"Why? I want the ice cream maker. I'm pretty happy with the ice cream maker!" he insisted.

"There are so many other better options than that ice cream maker; some are worth more money!" she rebutted.

"What is better than ice cream?!" was his reply as he added a smug grin.

"Did somebody say ice cream?" I shouted from the other room.

Dad laughed, and the conversation was over. Not only did I inherit his addiction, but I now have his ice cream maker too. It seems the addictive cycle has come full circle.

Anyway, this lifelong obsession has impacted my interactions with others in unusual ways. Mentions of ice cream constantly make it into my writing, but more importantly this obsession impacts my loved ones just like Dad's obsession did.

My husband analyzes everything; behaviors, mannerisms, expressions, word choice, etc. I thought I had my husband hooked when I made him the peanut butter balls he enjoyed, and kept providing additional treats for his sweet tooth. Little did I realize he had some very key elements of me figured out already.

He commented on my ability to find every ice cream shop on every single road trip we'd take. This ability also applies to frozen yogurt which I *ahem* still remember we did not stop for while travelling across country. Still, this is the only occasion I can say he refused to stop and being that it wasn't technically ice cream I guess he's somewhat off the hook.

Regardless, this uncanny ability gave him some powerful ammunition; an easy key to forgiveness from arguments. I never pinned him as the type to use this or to stoop so low, but I mean if it works it works and honestly I'd do the same. I guess we really were made for each other after all. I'll be honest, I forget the majority of the points we argue about. Once a problem is seemingly solved, it dumps from my memory bank. What I do remember is one specific occasion where his sins were pardoned for the sake of ice cream. Oh, he had me!

I don't stay angry for very long usually. If I spend a day intentionally avoiding someone after an argument, that is rare. But, on one occasion he made me so angry I did. I had improperly packed for our move to our new home, and he refused to let me hear the end of it the night before. Therefore, I was set on being angry. It helped that when he delivered the said Shamrock Shake, he also apologized, but I knew as soon as he came back and held out the shake it was over. I gave him an eye squint and replied, "You're not fair. You expect me to be that cheap?!" then I ripped it from his hand and sighed, "You really do know me too well. Thanks, I'm glad you're sorry."

He was careful not to laugh too much or too loud, but did comment "I'm genuinely surprised that worked."

After he saw me laughing, he took that as permission and laughed along too.

Ever since then, if I'm having a bad day or things don't go as planned he still offers me the simple treat of ice cream. It doesn't fix problems, but it does make life a little better and sweeter for a short while. I do admit he doesn't use it as a "get out of the doghouse free card" very often; thankfully, that was the only occasion. However, he does always say that he knows ice cream is a trick he can keep in his back pocket. He never expected his sins to be forgiven with a simple ice cream treat, but hey ice cream is just that good.

As for my sin of ice cream gluttony, I'm not sure if that will ever be forgiven. I can tell you one thing for sure; the angel on my right does not appear when I'm indulging in my favorite dairy substance.

The devil at my left, on the other hand, speaks to me and says, "You know this one bowl is insufficient. You know you want more."

Occasionally, you have to befriend and be aware of your demons, and right now I've called a truce with mine. Maybe if I will pardon others sins with ice cream, I'll be pardoned too. For now, I'll just have to ask for forgiveness. After all, there is no better time of year for ice cream than summer, and right now I plan on enjoying this season to the fullest!