In America ice cream is a verb. Or so it should be.
My post-camp travels involve little adventures broken up by ice cream stops (and I still ask myself how I come home 10 pounds heavier?). In London it’s said that you’re no more than 20ft from the nearest rat, in America you’re no more than 20ft from the nearest ice cream shop. That’s an incentive to pack your bags and move right away.
My camp’s surrounding cities are tourist central; Mackinac Island has it’s very own fudge flavoured ice cream available through to Ohio. In Ohio there were drive-thru garages supplying giant tubs of soft serve. Cheboygan was home to the Big Dipper, paradise of Superman, Cake Batter and Moose Tracks. Walmart sells a million flavours of Ben & Jerry’s for mere pennies. And then there’s Dairy Queen- too good and too cheap.
Why am I getting so into this ice cream awareness? Because I’m currently on a detox plan.
Then there’s also the fact that every flavour of ice cream is now a memory shared…
Last year, I was sharing cookie dough with little campers in Mackinaw. I walked along a riverside path happily flirting with seasalt caramel in hand. My first adventure to the states as a 10 year old left me reminiscing for years of bright blue bubblegum, reliving the dream 9 years later. Hours were spent driving round Ohio, feet up on the dashboard, watching my guy twerk to T-Pain whilst soft serve melted in the footwell. Then there were hazy, late night kitchen raids demolishing Ben & Jerry’s. 11pm trips for McFlurry’s because the Red Velvet tasted of poop. A chocolate milkshake was shared whilst I embraced country music and car rallies. I was treated to ice cream and in return spoon fed it to others.
As much as my stomach still hates me for overdosing on dairy, my heart is full of fond ice cream memories.
So when you next fall upon a little ice cream parlor, take the time to step in with someone important to you, find an exotic flavour and you’ll never forget that moment.
*Not suitable for those with dairy allergies