I started out as most kids do: A hot summer day. Sitting on a curb, dirt clinging to a frothy white paste smeared about my hands and face. Tongue lapping up the tasty summertime goodness contained by the soggy yellow cone. But sometime in my youth, things changed.
Why? I really don't know. I do know it wasn't genetic. After all, I started as a licker. Maybe it was my distaste for sticky hands. Maybe it was my dislike of soggy ice cream cones. Maybe I was afraid the neighborhood bully was going to take my frozen treat. Whatever it was, once it started there was no going back.
Bites replaced licks. Slowly at first. Easing my newly grown adult front teeth into the icy goodness. My friends whimpered as they tried it. "Doesn't that hurt your teeth?" they questioned. "Nope" I replied back between mouthfuls of sherbet. Silent swaths of ice cream disappeared from the scoops piled on top of the sugar cone. But then the silence was shattered by the first CRUNCH of the cone. The combination of ice cream and cone in one bite was a marriage like none other. Just pure perfection. But I didn't slow down to enjoy it. Like a sprinter nearing the finish line, my pace actually quickened. And suddenly, without fanfare or reward, it was over. Nary a melted drop had touched the ground or my hands. The summertime refreshment was merely a means to the end.
As I reflect back now, I think inhaling ice cream was a learned trait. On long drives through the Willamette Valley as a boy with my grandfather we would often stop for ice cream. He knew every Dairy Maid and Hamburger joint with a soft serve machine from Portland to Eugene and on both sides of the Willamette river. He'd tap the hard plastic steering wheel with his wedding ring and proclaim "I Scream, You Scream, we all Scream for Ice Cream!". Shortly after, we'd pull into the small drive in, and order our cones. His was usually a large vanilla or chocolate. I couldn't ever decide, so it was usually half and half. Age was never discriminated against when it came to size, either. He'd let me order a large, just like his, and we'd be happily back on the road. My grandfather would give a courtesy lick or two, and then bite into the swirled soft serve with abandon. I did the same. Pretty soon we'd be merrily crunching away on our cones while listening to Elvis sing hymns on a cassette tape. With the job finished, I'd roll down the window, lean back in the seat and let the wind blow through my hair as my belly strained to contain the near-pint of iced milk I'd just inhaled.
Hast thou found honey? eat so much as is sufficient for thee, lest thou be filled therewith, and vomit it.
Proverbs 25:16
Why? I really don't know. I do know it wasn't genetic. After all, I started as a licker. Maybe it was my distaste for sticky hands. Maybe it was my dislike of soggy ice cream cones. Maybe I was afraid the neighborhood bully was going to take my frozen treat. Whatever it was, once it started there was no going back.
Bites replaced licks. Slowly at first. Easing my newly grown adult front teeth into the icy goodness. My friends whimpered as they tried it. "Doesn't that hurt your teeth?" they questioned. "Nope" I replied back between mouthfuls of sherbet. Silent swaths of ice cream disappeared from the scoops piled on top of the sugar cone. But then the silence was shattered by the first CRUNCH of the cone. The combination of ice cream and cone in one bite was a marriage like none other. Just pure perfection. But I didn't slow down to enjoy it. Like a sprinter nearing the finish line, my pace actually quickened. And suddenly, without fanfare or reward, it was over. Nary a melted drop had touched the ground or my hands. The summertime refreshment was merely a means to the end.
As I reflect back now, I think inhaling ice cream was a learned trait. On long drives through the Willamette Valley as a boy with my grandfather we would often stop for ice cream. He knew every Dairy Maid and Hamburger joint with a soft serve machine from Portland to Eugene and on both sides of the Willamette river. He'd tap the hard plastic steering wheel with his wedding ring and proclaim "I Scream, You Scream, we all Scream for Ice Cream!". Shortly after, we'd pull into the small drive in, and order our cones. His was usually a large vanilla or chocolate. I couldn't ever decide, so it was usually half and half. Age was never discriminated against when it came to size, either. He'd let me order a large, just like his, and we'd be happily back on the road. My grandfather would give a courtesy lick or two, and then bite into the swirled soft serve with abandon. I did the same. Pretty soon we'd be merrily crunching away on our cones while listening to Elvis sing hymns on a cassette tape. With the job finished, I'd roll down the window, lean back in the seat and let the wind blow through my hair as my belly strained to contain the near-pint of iced milk I'd just inhaled.
Hast thou found honey? eat so much as is sufficient for thee, lest thou be filled therewith, and vomit it.
Proverbs 25:16