Twice Cream

There are two kinds of people in the world: those who like ice cream and those who don't.

OK, I've never actually met anyone who doesn't like ice cream, except this one guy who said he could take it or leave it. Maybe he was having personal problems — or perhaps he was lactose intolerant.

Tantalizing in taste, texture and temperature, there is something almost unbearably sensual about ice cream. It starts as a creamy solid and melts slowly, extravagantly around your tongue, releasing its sweetness and the secrets of its more delicate flavors into your mouth.

I'll never forget the look on my daughter's face when she first tasted ice cream as a toddler. Initially shocked and confused, she puckered her lips against the sudden cold. As the rich chocolate seeped through, her eyes widened in delight and her mouth parted into an eager smile, little hands reaching for the cone.

Frozen desserts have been tempting us for thousands of years. Nero (A.D. 37-68) was a fan of ice flavored with honey and fruit, and there is some evidence that the Chinese created the first iced dairy delicacy. America has literally grown up on ice cream; both Washington and Jefferson were known for serving it to their guests and our first public ice cream parlor opened in New York in 1776.

Ice cream represents democracy at its best. Price points range from about 50 cents for kid-friendly pushups to thousand dollar sundaes served in a crystal goblet with an 18-carat gold spoon at Manhattan's Serendipity 3. Ice cream flavors have been designed to meet the needs of every personality and mood: from traditional vanilla, fruity strawberry and nutty Rocky Road, to abstract Blue Moon and even exotic wasabi.

What makes ice cream ice cream? While many desserts are made from its key ingredients of cream, milk, sugar and flavorings, to be labeled "ice cream" according to the International Dairy Foods Association (IFDA), the confection in question must contain at least 10% milk fat and weigh at least 4.5 pounds per gallon.

Frozen custard is the same as ice cream, but also contains at least 1.4% egg yolk. Sherbet has between 1-2% milk fat and slightly more sweetener than ice cream. The Italian version, gelato, differs in that it usually has more intense flavor and is served semi-frozen. Sorbet, the oldest form of frozen dessert, contains no dairy and is made of sweetened ice flavored with fruit, chocolate, wine or liqueur. Frozen yogurt is exactly what it says — frozen yogurt.

For my taste, Ben & Jerry's New York Super Fudge Chunk® is the best of the best. To date, Oink's Dutch Treat in New Buffalo, Michigan is my favorite ice cream parlor. Offering 55 flavors, Oink's make it hard to choose (try the cherry with chocolate flakes). 

Perhaps it's no coincidence that I have landed in Evanston, IL, a town that lays claim to naming the ice cream sundae (duking it out with Ithaca, NY and Two Rivers, WI for the bragging rights). In a cup or a cone, in a sundae or alone, ice cream may be the perfect food — except the part where it's bad for your diet … and your cholesterol … and your thighs.

Here's where living in Evanston meets my needs in a whole new way. The other day, my girl friend called and said: "Pick me up. I need frozen yogurt." Why bother, I thought. "This stuff is the best," she said, reading my mind, "and only 90 calories for a small." I have assiduously avoided the nutrition information on Ben & Jerry cartons, but for the purposes of this essay, I thought I better do the research. Those who don't want to know should skip on down to the next paragraph. New York Super Fudge Chunk contains 300 calories per 1/2 cup serving. Yikes.

So, we went to the new frozen yogurt place in town, Red Mango™. It was two minutes to closing and the place was mobbed. I looked up at the menu to discover that they offer only two flavors — original and green tea. The cynic in me could barely justify a late night dessert run that did not include chocolate, but since my friend was buying, I tried a small original with fresh raspberries.

Look out, B&J, I may have found a new home. Curiously satisfying, this treat offers all the fun of ice cream for less than a third of the caloric price. It has a little bit of sour mixed with the sweet, and you can add fresh fruit, as well as some weird dry toppings (Fruity Pebbles, anyone?). It even claims to be good for you, containing no artificial anything and something called probiotics, credited with improving digestive health and the immune system.

So, if you're lucky enough to live in Illinois, California, Nevada, New Jersey, New York, Oregon, Utah or Washington, then get yourself to Red Mango (unless you live in Evanston; then you should stay home, because the line is already too long). I know it sounds like I've gone over to the dark side, but this is a true ice cream lover talking, so you can trust me.

If you're drooling over your keyboard now, you may be happy to learn that July is National Ice Cream Month and that, this year, National Ice Cream Day will be celebrated on Sunday, July 20. Click here to let me know how you plan to celebrate.

Photo credit: Ice Cream Cone ~ 8 scoops + 3 Diamond Rings by Tiffany by Prayitno via a Creative Commons license. 

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This Posting is a Nut Free (well, almost)

There are two kinds of people in the world: those who have allergies and those who don't.

To the allergy free, salute. To the more than 20 percent of you who are allergy sufferers, I can only say that I feel your pain.

My big allergy bugaboo is insect bites. Mosquitoes are my nemesis. A single bite from this malevolent creature weighing less than three milligrams brings on a huge, hot-to-the-touch welt that lasts more than a week, often accompanied by water blisters, nausea, dizziness and a general sense of malaise. It's not fun.

But as much as I hate these little buggers, it seems they love me. I have been hunted down in my own bed, through layers of blankets and clothing and repellents. In February. In Chicago. My blood is the Chateau Lafite Rothschild of the mosquito world — ripe, spicy, with a particular softness, firm yet delicate and supple, developing a great elegance with age (or so claim the tasting notes reported by the Family Culicidae).

I know members of the Mosquito Protection Society will start violent protests over this, but it is my fervent wish that every mosquito will drop dead tomorrow (along with their unwanted, unhatched offspring). I promise the frogs will not all croak and the rain forests will not fall without them. Mosquitoes have been around for more than 30 million years and have killed more human beings than any other creature in history (think yellow fever, malaria). Now we've got to worry about the West Nile Virus and, given how attractive I am to these disease-carrying vermin, it is a scientific fact that I am now a gazillion times more likely to die an untimely death. To add insult to injury, this is girl-on-girl violence, as only the female mosquito stings (bitch!).

As annoying as they are, insect bites are not the only allergy that plagues our family. We run the gamut from dust mite to food allergies, with symptoms that include asthma, eczema, chronic sinusitis and anaphylaxis. Last fall, we discovered that our youngest boy, the family gourmand, is allergic to shellfish. (Could this be a sign that our nice Jewish family should start keeping kosher? Nah.) He was incensed over the diagnosis: "What do you mean, no more calamari? A squid does not have a shell." True, but calamari, squid and octopus all fall under the category of shellfish when it comes to allergies.

Shellfish is an easier allergy to manage than, say, peanuts because it is easier to predict where it might show up, but it's still a pain. We have joined the ranks of label readers and EpiPen® owners, forced to carry it with us wherever we go. We have to watch for cross-contamination and "hidden" ingredients at restaurants. For example, my husband and I recently took this child out for a special meal, just the three of us, at Froggy's. He initially ordered salmon with bell pepper sauce (the boy likes to eat), only to be told that the sauce was made with clam juice. You just never know.

The other day, this same child came to me with his eyes puffed up like a vanquished boxer. He hadn't had any shellfish, so now it's back to the allergist to start the whole scratch-testing process over again.

I recognize that having an allergy is not the end of the world. Modern medicine has given us many ways to protect ourselves and manage these allergies. All except one — my severe allergy to exercise. I wonder when they'll develop an effective immunotherapy for that one. Sign me up for the clinical trial. 

So, as long as you're not allergic to a nut like me, why don't you leave a comment by clicking here.

Photo credit: Wooooooooo … by CharlesLam via Flickr.com.

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The Best Words

 There are two kinds of people in the world: those who write poetry and those who don't.

Forgive my boast, but I am a great business writer. I can whip up a newsletter that will make you weep. I'm working hard on my creative writing, as well, learning everything I can and then revising, revising, revising … But, I'm no poet.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge defined prose as words in their best order, and poetry as the best words in the best order. I like this definition. 

I admit to being a little intimidated by poetry. I used to feel that I was missing the point. Recently, I have learned to take poetry as it comes — ponder it, enjoy it (or not) and accept it for what it means to me.

My favorite poet is Van Morrison (OK, songwriter, but now you're just picking nits):

We were born before the wind

Also younger than the sun

Ere the bonnie boat was won as we sailed into the mystic

Hark, now hear the sailors cry

Smell the sea and feel the sky

Let your soul and spirit fly into the mystic

I'm also a big Ogden Nash fan — you know, the poet who penned these seven immortal words:

Candy is dandy

But liquor is quicker.

Granted, it does sound a bit like a jingle for the Distilled Spirits Council of the United States (discus.org), but you can't deny that this little ditty conveys a beautiful truth with a stunning economy of language.

My friend Alice George is a real, live poet. And it turns out that real, live poets are even better than the famous dead kind because, in addition to enriching us with their own best words in their best order, they can teach and inspire the poetry in others. Such was the case for the first-through-fifth graders (including two of my own) who were lucky enough to have Alice as artist in residence at our elementary school this spring.

At one of the culminating events of the residency, Alice led an open mic poetry night at an awesome new(ish) performance/learning venue in Evanston called Boocoo. I was bitter with envy both exhilarated and humbled by the poetry created and performed by these children, who seem able to reach deep into their souls to describe the world with an exactitude and lyricism that eludes my poetry. (Be excited, OCWW members — Alice is on the docket for next semester.)

On past poetry nights, Alice has invited grownups to participate, but this night was just for the children. Since I have never been accused of being a grownup, I decided to share my poem anyway:

The Tantrum

Just a few missed warning signs
Before the blast
The fierce flash of light
The sonic boom.

The toxic fallout of the mushroom cloud
Envelops everything in sight.
No one is safe.

Soft tissue mottles over
Writhing muscles
Twisting and contorting the familiar
Into something unrecognizable.

Ugliness oozes from each pore
As rage pours from every visible orifice.
The genie is out of the bottle now.
Pandora is out of the box.
It’s too late for a cork or a levee or a bunker.

It’s in motion now
Careening violently
Sucking in every object and subject
In its vengeful path.

Just be still
Ride out the storm
Wait for the rain
Hope for the best.

A brief respite
Full of false hope.
All hearts pound as
The storm feeds on itself.

The banging of the shutters slows
To a more predictable beat
But the damage is done.
The family landscape is scarred again.

Finally, there is quiet
Not peace, just exhaustion.

Pulses steady
As survivors venture forth
Tiptoeing carefully on those eggshells
Lest the wrathful beast reawaken.

A final gust of tainted wind
Jarring but not dangerous
Shudders with uncomfortable regret:
"Sorry, guys, Mama is just having a bad day.

If, like my brother, you think my poem is cute but trite, slam me with a scathing couplet by clicking here; or give me an ode for effort. Better yet, try your hand at a poem of your own.

Photo credit: night poetry by kechambers via flickr.com.

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A Place for Everything

There are two kinds of people in the world: those who keep things and those who throw things out.

Me, I'm a pack rat. I look at a notecard, catalog or newspaper article, and if there is a remote possibility I might someday want to look at some part of it again, I keep it.

My good friend, on the other hand, is a thrower outer. She looks at a piece of paper and if it is not of immediate import, she throws it away. This has included even the directions for things she doesn't know how to use or put together. "Oh, Jim will figure it out when he gets home," she explained when I asked her how on earth she planned to assemble a multi-piece something without the instructions.

I once had a roommate who wouldn't allow a newspaper to remain in the apartment for more than an hour — extreme by even the most fastidious standards. Clearly, there needs to be a happy medium.

My parents are the ultimate accumulators. They have a passion for garage sales, auctions and flea markets. Over the years they have accumulated an astounding collection of … well, everything. Recently, my father has become addicted to ultra clearance sales: you know, the bright orange signs advertising "(up to) 90% off EVERYTHING." He's gotten some great bargains, like bathing suits for my boys for six bits apiece. He's also gotten some great bargains on things no one could ever possibly use, like matching suede vests for my brother and husband (yikes!). 

This is not to say that my folks are disorganized. My mother, a retired school librarian, alphabetized our spice rack and medicine cabinet. Most kids moan when they ask how to spell a word and are told to "look it up in the dictionary." My mother always followed that admonishment with: "You'll find it in the 400s." Not every household can boast such a comprehensive understanding of the Dewey Decimal System. Even the talented Mr. Dewey, however, could not have devised a system capable of cataloging the sheer volume of artifacts housed by my parents.

I'm placing no value judgment on either keepers or eliminators, here. The trouble seems to come when a saver hooks up with a tosser, as in my marriage. My husband comes from a long line of neat freaks and complains that he is being edged out of every room in our house. He simply doesn't understand that paper can take on a life of its own.

He can't stand the apparent disorganization of my various piles. He thinks if it's not in a labeled file in a labeled hanging folder in a labeled file drawer, it's lost. And I loathe when he makes any attempt to organize my stuff. As every keeper understands, we can trace back in our minds exactly where everything is and, if anything is moved, the whole system falls apart.

Ironically, I love all the accouterments of organization — the sharpies and labelers and fancy filing systems. But, no matter how hard I try to organize it, there's always more stuff.

I've spent days whipping my office into shape, vowing never to let it get messy again. But then, a stack of mail comes or a flood of forms from school, and I can't get to it right that minute, so I start a pile. Just one, that I will get to tomorrow — maybe even tonight, once the kids are in bed. Then, a few more papers come in and I divide everything into two piles: the "hot" pile (which I will get to tomorrow) and the "soon, but not an emergency" pile, with things like that great new catalog from The Container Store.

Sure, I've watched the professional organizers on Oprah who teach you "how to organize things the way you use them." They advise you not to "containerize" until you have organized your belongings and lived with them for a while. What fun is that? I mean, there is nothing better than buying a cool new container or beautiful basket. So what if it doesn't work for your stuff. You'll eventually find a use for it. As every saver knows, it's the minute you throw something away that you need it.

So, do you want to keep it or throw it out? File your opinion here or email me at 2KoPeole@gmail.com.

Photo credits: White Elfa decor Freestanding Home Office from The Container Store.

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The Skinny on Dipping

There are two kinds of people in the world: pool people and beach people.

This past Memorial Day weekend here in Chicagoland, one could hear the call of marine mammals migrating to their native habitats: "Pool passes or beach passes?" they cried. It was a welcome sound, heralding the arrival of summer.

I grew up in Michigan, which is bordered by four of the five Great Lakes and boasts 11,000 inland lakes and more than 3,200 miles of shoreline. We spent every summer of my childhood playing in those lakes on those beaches. How, then, did I become a pool person?

First, you can trust a pool. You don't have to worry that the bottom will suddenly give way to muck or rocks. There's no sand to get stuck in uncomfortable places, like contact lenses or bathing suits. And you don't have to rub against slimy fish or seaweed. Plus, packing for the beach is like packing for vacation: coolers, chairs, umbrellas, blankets, toys — the list is endless. All you really need for the pool is a towel and some sunscreen.

Evanston, where we live, has six beaches, but no outdoor pool. Since moving here, I have bought beach passes exactly once. The first time we went, the beach was covered with dead alewives and live, biting flies. That was also the last time we went. Fortunately, the city has made a deal with a couple of landlocked suburbs, so we can go to their pools and they can come to our beaches.

The constant closing of area beaches due to "unacceptable" levels of E. coli is not a big draw for me, either. According to the EPA, Cook County's 55 beaches closed an average of seven times last summer, and that was a good year. To be fair, I can't even count how many times our pool closed due to some toddler's potty accident.

It's not just swimmers who are divided between the pool and beach; it's sunbathers, too. At first blush, you might think they would have a clear preference, but I know sun worshippers of both denominations. Beach buffs come with those funny little chopped-off chairs planted in the sand, while a pool-side tanner will head straight for the chaise lounge. They both worship from spots that offer maximum exposure, devoutly rotating every so often to promote even bronzing. And though neither type of tanner may ever touch one toe in the water, both are passionate about their choice of watering hole.

Through friendships and marriage, I have learned that émigrés from the East Coast are the true fanatics of this watery debate. One summer, we took a trip to my husband's beloved Jersey shore. Ah, the Ocean! (Capital "O".)

"Isn't the boardwalk great?" he asked. Sure, if you like splinters and the smell of tar. "The sand is completely different," he marveled, picking up a handful. Sand is sand. You still have to watch out for cigarette butts and pop tops. Excuse me, soda can tops. "Now those are waves," he exalted, watching as our children emerged choking from the salt water, only to be smacked down again. Like they say, it's a nice place to visit.

We Midwesterners take umbrage to this narrow-minded ocean view. After all, when they called them the Great Lakes, they weren't kidding. These are BIG lakes, true inland seas that form international boundaries. You can't even see across them! We have sand, we have white caps, but according to the sea snobs, Great just isn't good enough.

Long after I became an adult, my parents bought a lake house — not on a Great Lake, but on a pleasant lake in Michigan. Sandy bottomed, with no public access, the lake is big enough for ski boats, but small enough to keep out the riffraff. My kids practically live in the water, which is bathtub warm by mid-June. Even I have been known to swim out to the sandbar now and again. That was until ... the leech incident.

That day, my son had been playing peacefully at the water's edge. During one of many sunscreen pit stops, he looked down and said: "Mom, I've got blood." I followed his glance to an enormously engorged leech attached to his leg. Not wanting to disturb his calm, I swallowed my panic and hit the leech off with a stick. Turns out, that's not the best approach. It took wads of paper towels and four bandages to stanch the bleeding.

On our next visit, when my dad invited me into the lake for a swim, I was somewhat less than enthusiastic. "Come on!" he coaxed.

"I'll pass," I said. "The whole leech thing has me pretty grossed out."

"God invented leeches, too, you know," he said.

"Not my God," I retorted. "My God is the God of indoor plumbing; the God of cell phones and hot tubs. My God is the God of caffeine-free diet beverages."

"The lake is caffeine free," he replied.

Right. I'll stick to swimming pools.

How about you? Pool pass or beach pass? Or perhaps you are one of those sea snobs? Dive in by clicking here or email me at 2KoPeople@gmail.com.

Photo credits: beach thanks to Maltaguy1 via morguefile.com; pool thanks to wipeoutpdr via flickr.com.

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Double Vision

There are two kinds of people in the world: those who have eyes in the back of their heads and those who don't.

All mothers, of course, develop these bonus oculi, giving them a kind of hypervision. I'm sure it's an evolutionary development, essential for the survival of the species. No doubt it has saved many many a child from running into the street, falling from a precarious perch or touching a hot stove.

My children are continually astounded when, without turning from the task at hand, I say "Put that down," or "Do not touch her" or "I said one cookie." My middle boy, the fact-finder, frequently tries to investigate: "I want to see those eyes in the back of your head. How could they see through all that hair?"

Call it a sixth sense. Call it a superpower. I prefer to call it by its scientific name (coined by me) — binocular fusion squared, or BF². Human eyes work using a process known as binocular fusion, by which we perceive a single, three dimensional image through the separate images captured by each eye. In mothers, this phenomenon is amplified by a kind of built-in rearview mirror.

How else would it be possible for me to look at my children and see them objectively in terms of relative beauty (the slightly crooked front teeth, the persistent patch of eczema, the pubescent near-unibrow), yet still know that each one wears the most pulchritudinous punim in the history of human faces?

Without maternal parallax, how could I watch my boy trip over his own two feet on the soccer field, yet still know that he's the greatest athlete of all time?

If it weren't for such disambiguation, how could my own mother watch me throw a temper tantrum over my child's temper tantrum, yet still be able to assure me that I have the patience of Job.

This Mother's Day, may you feel protected by the hawk eyes of a vigilant mother, and may you see the world through the generous eyes of a loving one.

Leave a comment here or email me at 2KoPeople@gmail.com.

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Chain of Fools

There are two kinds of people in the world: those who respond to chain letters and those who don't.

Until just recently, I had not participated in a chain letter since I was a kid. I can't remember the premise of that long-ago letter, but I do remember dutifully copying it in my best handwriting 10 times, getting my mom to stamp and mail the letters, and waiting. The anticipation of literally hundreds of responses was both delicious and excruciating. Back then, getting a letter in the mail was cause for celebration, and I couldn't wait. But I did wait. And wait. And the letters never came.

Disappointment doesn't begin to cover it. I felt devastated, abandoned and totally alone. Skip ahead about 35 years or so.

Email has reinvigorated the chain letter. I try to be judicious about what I pass along, but I'm sure I still forward too often. Imagine my surprise when I recently received an invitation via snail mail from my aunt to participate in a virtual book club. All I had to do was mail one book and 10 letters, and I would get hundreds of books in the mail. I took the bait. In sweet vindication of that childhood trauma, I have actually received two books. How cool is that?

Now it seems I have been snookered into a virtual version of this pyramid scheme. One of my favorite writers, Cindy Fey, tagged me to participate in something called "Six Random Things About Me."  Here goes:

Un: When I read a book, I read everything — the acknowledgements, the copyright, even the part that says "This book was typeset in in 11 point Goudy™ Old Style, originally created by famous type designer Frederic W. Goudy in 1915 …"

Deux: When I die, I want to be reincarnated as Van Morrison, specifically during the "Moondance" years, and more specifically singing "Caravan."  (Click here for a sound clip.

Trois: When I was a kid, we went camping a lot. In recent discussions with my family, I have realized that I have relatively few memories of those trips, as I am extremely allergic to mosquito bites and spent most of the time stoned on Benadryl.

Quatre: I frequently start deep, personal, often intimate conversations with complete strangers in elevators or in line at the grocery.

Cinq: I don't really speak French. In high school, we studied French cooking, listened to French rock and roll (a true oxymoron), and conjugated a few verbs. As a freshman in college, I was somehow scheduled into an intensive French class — two hours a day (starting at 8:00 a.m.), five days a week. The first words out of my Parisian-born teacher's mouth were: "Zees will be the last words you 'ear me speak en Anglais." I raised my hand and said: "I do not belong in zis class."

Six: Though I have a brilliant sense of direction, I have only the barest knowledge of world geography. This is not my fault. When I was a kid, the Soviet Union was still intact and our social studies books printed maps of the USSR all in black (or sometimes red – Communist Red) and labeled it as "behind the Iron Curtain." Since then, borders have moved, whole countries and cities have been renamed (is it Bombay or Mumbai?) and I just can't keep up.

There you have my scintillating six. Here are the rules to this game, as plagiarized directly from Cindy's blog, followed by the six people I have tagged:

The Rules:

Link to the person who tagged you (i.e., me).

Post the rules on your blog.

Write six random things about yourself in a blog post.

Tag six people.

Let each person know they've been tagged by leaving a comment on one of their recent posts.

Let the tagger know when your entry is posted.

My taggees:

Becky (my Becky, not Cindy's Becky)

Critique group buddy Angela Allyn at Domestic Blitz

Ardis at Hilltop: The View from Here and Now (another wonderful writer)

Writer and friend Sue Roupp at rouppgroupink

Another writer acquaintance, Beverly Patt, who's first book is due out from Bloomingtree Press this year. 

Web goddess and OCWW member Helen Gallagher at Release Your Writing.

You all have my sincerest apologies. Feel free to comment by clicking here or email me at 2KoPeople@gmail.com.

Photo credit: Click via MorgueFile.com.

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