I Scream for Ice Cream!

Ice cream! Ice Cream! I scream for ice cream.

Apparently, I’m not along in this.

Nero (Of all people) is supposed to have had a form of Ice Cream. It was cream mixed with honey and buried in the snow of the mountains to keep it in a frozen. When he wanted some, a very fast running slave was dispatched to get some and run it back before melting. Considering his towering temper, I hope he was one of those who liked his ice cream partially melted.

But it seems China can be blamed for Ice Cream. There was a dish of frozen milk and rice that was popular during the Tang Dynasty. And Marco Polo brought back what we know as Ice Cream with him when he came back from China.

Flash forward several centuries.

My Uncle Neff, after having lost his leg in combat is an Army Hospital. He groused about the ice cream. Why the complaining. American Soldiers were stuck with sherbet while the German wounded got Ice Cream.

Flash forward a few more years to a kid, sitting on top of a silver freezer. He has an ice cream cone in his hand topped with vanilla ice cream. My grandfather had made the cone for me in his store. I’m sitting, enjoying, and I’m on top of the world.

Today, after a hard day, I still like my ice cream. Given a choice, I’d go to the 7-11 and buy a Fat Boy ice cream sandwich. Or a pint of Butter Pecan Hagan-Dazs.

Set back. Enjoy. And for at least a little while, I’m that little boy again sitting on the ice cream freezer enjoying a cone.