Threnody to an Empty Bowl of Iced Cream

An Infinite Number of Monkeys…: Threnody to an Empty Bowl of Iced Cream


Iced cream: I hardly knew you. You are a rare foodstuff – one that soothes the bitterness of pain and accentuates the pleasures of joy. You generously lend unwavering support to an ensemble of pies yet can stand bold and strong in solo acts of pints. Your luxuries royale have eluded the masses until the invention of artificial freezing and even then, the perfect texture eludes many to this day. You satisfy the hunger pains of the right brain and the poignant urges of the left. And so today I want to celebrate the full life of what is now an empty bowl.

Born one faithful morning a short two weeks ago to a Danish Jersey and a Guernsey cow, you were rapidly whisked away from your biological parents and spent your formative minutes in a large vat with others like yourself. You were eventually singled out for your high concentration of hydrocarbon chains of the lipid variety. You spent the next few hours in a special slow-churn school system where you were fed a special diet of sugar and vanilla while you studied French and Italian. As your ice crystals grew and hardened with age, you gained the respect of your peers and earned a right to sit between them. By the time we first met, you were well established already and the sitting Mayor of Naples.

Although we only knew each other for a short amount of time – less than 15 minutes – your impact was huge. You were placed next to the pretentious Dulce de Leche and the pessimistic Death by Chocolate on the shelf. It was love at first sight. The winds of fate had brought the two of us together and nothing was going to stop that. After a short ceremony at the cash register, we were finally on our way into the wide world.

So as I stare at the empty bowl where you once stood proud, all I can think about was the wonderful time together, burnished in memories for time immemorial. It seemed but a moment ago when we basked in the coolness of your company, the richness of your flavors and the creaminess of your texture. The loss of your company only set in after the ineffective scraping of melted cream at the bottom of the bowl. Your simplistic Neapolitan nature made you who you are and you will be missed. Our memories together will never be replaced.

Except, perhaps, by a pint of Rocky Road.

S.J. Russell

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