The Shadow and the Soul

Ice Cream on Sundays

The longest relationships I've ever had is with ice cream. For the past fourteen years, I've gotten ice cream every second Sunday. This is a "hell-or-high-water" scenario. If I don't have it, I tend to think I've ruined the rest of my week and I land myself in some less than desirable scenarios. This could be me. Or it could be because I didn't have my ice cream. Now, I only have it every other Sunday because after the age of eighteen, my metabolism wasn't entirely keeping up with my dairy intake, and once you get a taste of artisan ice cream made with real cream and fresh ingredients, you become an absolute idiot and basically give them all the pin numbers to every bank card in your wallet. Again...could just be me.

Ice cream on Sunday started after my childhood dog, a floppy basset hound named Duck, was hit by our neighbour's car. Duck got out, chased after something, and bam: no more Duck. My father, the man who bestowed Duck with his fabulous name, decided to soothe my sorrows with ice cream. It didn't bring Duck back, but at least I'd stopped crying and my Dad was able to smile knowing he'd calmed me down. Since then, I've used ice cream to connect. It has been the most predictable part of my life, and I have dragged all those who have mattered to me over the years to various locations to indulge in the splendor that is a dairy-induced coma.

Today's Sunday has the honour of my oldest adult friend, Shelby Green, tagging along with me. I need to make the point that "oldest adult friend" feels weird to say, but we've only known each other since our first week of university. She never knew my childhood. She never knew my adolescent years. She had no photos of me brandishing hairstyles that would make you cringe and possesses no knowledge of my borderline unhealthly teenage obsession with vampire fanfiction (including sparkles and otherwise). Shelby is that friend you make that sticks with you because she understands the teen years fall away. They tend not to haunt you once you get away from what you used to know. You get to exist as the 'you' that you want to be once you get away from all the influences of your upbringing.

Sitting in a booth, we've both propped our legs up on the seats. Our feet just reach the edge of the wooden bench seats as we watch the people come in and out. This is where she and I guess what each new customer is going to order. We rarely get into the specifics. Mostly we guess cone versus bowl, sundae versus milkshake. It's a basic game unless a customer decides to taste test multiple flavours of the hard ice cream. This is when Shelby and I gently stalk from our booth and try to determine which flavour will win. It's like being commentators for some obscure sport that no one really knows about, but somehow still manages to be televised. Today, we haven't been so lucky to play commentators, but we've just begun to dine on our own ice cream.

Looking over to Shelby, she's pushing at the pool of hot fudge in the middle of her soft serve. The fudge moves slowly up towards the edge of its icy white mountain before pouring down to the peanuts that line the edge of the clear container she holds. Hot fudge sundae in a bowl is Shelby's order EVERY time. She had never deviated. She's not about to change order either. I once tried to get her get caramel sauce instead of hot fudge and got a lecture on the "necessity of maintaining the status quo for the sake of the behavioural dimension of our psyche."  I no longer pressure her to try anything new.  I, on the other hand, tend to go all over the map.  Let my ice cream freak flag fly.  The more variation, the merrier. Today, I am content with my choice of raspberry ice cream that towers in the waffle cone that this place brags are homemade. I'm a sucker for a waffle cone. I don't care if they come from a box or are fresh pressed: just put my ice cream in it.

Shelby's gaze looks up to the counter where servers are busy creating whatever sugar-filled creations the patrons have already paid for. Her lips purse and she tilts her chin slightly to signal that I should be looking at the counter. Following her line of sight, I see a man standing in front of the line of freezers. My brow furrows for a moment, wondering why I hadn't heard the bell chime when he entered. I must have been too caught up in Mount St. Hot Fudge. Although I can't see his face yet, I'm assuming his eyes are scanning the colourful array of containers inside. I do my best to give him a thorough once-over.