Melting away 

I haven’t been to a gourmet ice cream shop, in probably, years. My lack of visitation has more to do with the richness of my pocketbook than the cream. I’m aware of my Yankee roots and admit to my frugality. I’m not letting a waffle cone allow me to waffle about when I can retire. 

I took one for the team. The fam. I had to buy gourmet ice cream and select a mix-in. I read their board of Signature Selection items.  Multiple times. I read it again, filtering out the chocolate items.  I’m in the minority when it comes to chocolate.

 I stared into the window of ice cream flavors wanting at least half of them. The sneeze guard came in handy for my drool. I couldn’t decide. I asked to try the sugar cookie. It was beyond cookie batter delicious. I observed the flavors in their glorious buckets still trying to choose. I sampled the raspberry. It was a dream but it would need a worthy mix-in.

I looked to my right to consider how to partner my ultimate choice. I walked past the mix-ins. I went to and fro – twice. Coconut, Reese’s pieces, white chocolate, pecans, graham cracker crust and Snickers all made the short list. 

I backtracked to the beginning of the line again to my scoopers dismay. She looked at me as curiously as I looked at others that seemed to readily know their ideal ice cream and mix-in mate.

My mate was already happily enjoying his selection near the register. I hadn’t paid attention to what he ordered. It was most likely a combination of chocolates and peanut butter with his signature written all over it. 

I needed to focus. 

This was an investment in time and money. 

I had to be thoughtful. 

My eyes and nose were trying to help as best they could. 

My hips had already forgiven me for walking in the door. 

My taste buds were waiting for the rest of my mouth to speak. 

I wanted to say it en Francais, since my final decision had such a European flare. My mix-in combo choice was something for the tourists to write home about. 

“French vanilla.”

“…and for your mix-in?”


It was a classic move. 

For me. Not original in any way, shape or form. Only expensive taste – for something that was just slathered all over a cold slab.

A better, more ethnic and reasonable selection would have been to give my Greek-American grocers next door all that money for an entire gallon of their store-bought, re-branded ice cream, a full  box of unsmashed Oreos and cones for the whole family!

I ate my ‘gourmet’ ice cream on the way back home in my car?

 I knew I wouldn’t be back for years. I needed to go home to my New England kitchen and recycle the spoons. It was time to go back to being frugal and saving for retirement.


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