Ice Cream Soup

It was a really cheesy pop song. I always know something is wrong when mainstream music begins speaking to me. "My fingertips are holding onto the cracks in our foundation; and I think that I should let go, but I can’t." A foundation - chiefly a very recently-laid foundation - should have no cracks. In the event that weather or some stronger force should damage so deeply that one’s foundation is shaken, action must be taken immediately. Sometimes, the damage is slight enough that it can be undone; other times not. But a glue stick and the strength of a girl’s small hands are not nearly sufficient; and though such tactics as painting over the rough spots and sealing together chasms with safety pins seem worthwhile, a rocky foundation will almost inevitably give way to failure in the end. Perhaps this is why we are warned against building houses upon sand. 

If we didn’t have Neapolitan (our favorite), it was vanilla with chocolate sauce; but regardless of the flavor, we knew the key to unlocking the most satisfying means of ice cream consumption was as follows: you put it in a bowl, leave it alone for 3 - 4 minutes until it is about 15% liquid, then stir it around (but not too much) until it has the consistency of a thick paste; and then you eat it. 

Ice cream soup isn’t something one buys at the convenience store. If that happens, it is certain to be returned. What makes it wonderful is the fact it that begins as something good, and in time becomes something better. The only problem with the idea of ice cream soup arises within those consumers who believe in a perfected product, pre-purchase. 

There was a boy once who had such wild fantasies about the product he was after that he entered an ice cream shop and requested that his order be melted. Unfortunately, the boy was disappointed when he discovered it couldn’t be properly re-frozen. He had been so consumed with a perfected end result, that he never had the opportunity to enjoy the breaking-in, the comfort, the familiarity of the relationship process. He didn’t know that something wonderful is meant to become something more wonderful, more refined with age. In the process, he eagerly pursued a fantasy, which turned out to be . . . human. 

I wasn’t thinking of any of this last night, but that’s probably because these weren’t things I wanted to think about. When he said "I can’t wait to talk to you!" I wasn’t expecting the talk to be him telling me that I’m a better concept than reality and his attraction to me had plummeted. I wasn’t expecting to hear that, because I had convinced myself that our foundation was strong enough.

I am still every bit as big of an advocate of the old "save the best for last" motto that I was as a seven-year-old ice cream soup connoisseur. I still believe that good things get better and that strong things rely on the strength of a stronger foundation during storms. 

But maybe that’s because I’m really immature.