apologies to eugene. i had a bowl of your root-beer-float ice cream. not only was it delectable, it made me feel giddy inside. not since i was seven has an ice cream succeeded in doing its one assigned task. sure, there have been ice creams that come along and lead you on - tempt your palate into thinking they, too, are filled with all the wonderment and childhood fancy you once knew lived inside such a confection... but no. true, they may be sultry, sexy, pompous, or flashy... they may even a little bit boring and lackluster, but none have ever made you giggle after you take the first bite.
the cold spoon glides past the teeth and the crystals of the ice cream immediately begin to dance on your tongue. each crystal carries a feather that tickles your taste buds, or tells you a joke, or makes a funny face, wears a goofy hat, does a headstand, or maybe even shows you a magic trick or five.
this delightful dance goes on for a deceptively long period of time before it's interrupted by, what right then can seem like the most offensive sound in the world: the clink of your spoon hitting the bottom of the empty dish. appalled, you gaze into the bowl in wild wonder that someone, something, some force greater than yourself has somehow managed to put an end to such joy. ruefully, you get up and walk to the sink, a mix of residual buoyancy from the ice cream and cynicism and dejection from the fact that it's all over.
until next time, turkey hill.
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