Facing the Cold Soft Truth

Sometimes, there are things you don't really want to hear. Like when my boys were in elementary school, and their third grade teacher chose to explain the ingredients in hot dogs. Genius has rarely eaten one since. The Pony got over it much quicker. He would stuff himself with hot dogs if it was socially acceptable.

Then there was the elementary art teacher who told the second graders all about Santa Claus. Every year. Like they weren't hearing it enough from the older kids on the bus.

Okay, I admit to giving out a little too much info one time. But it had to be done. This was ninth grade. A kid asked me what pickles looked like before they were picked. Um. She didn't want to know that pickles were cucumbers before they became pickles. Seems she really, really didn't like cucumbers. And vowed never to eat another pickle. So sorry. She should be glad that only nine other kids were in class to lecture her about pickles. Not the entire general population of high school students. I did her a favor, really. Saved her from future embarrassment.

My own unwanted awakening came out of the mouth of my cousin. She was three years older than me. We were spending a few days at my grandma's house over the summer. Grandma used to take all of us grandkids for two weeks solid every summer. What she was thinking I can't imagine. Perhaps how GOOD it felt to thrash us all at croquet. Anyhoo...as a special treat, instead of sleeping in the back bedroom, or on the hide-a-bed, or on a pallet on the floor, Grandma sometimes allowed us to sleep in the camper. To the best I remember, it looked like this:

That's a 1956 Southland Runabout, I think. And if I remember correctly, it had a bed in the back like this:

But my rude awakening came in the kitchen. At the table that had been my bed the night before:

Uh huh. My grandma's camper was nowhere near this grand. But I am happy to find a reasonable facsimile on the innernets.

So...my cousins and I had been running around in the yard, perhaps throwing hedgeapples down the sinkhole by the driveway while adults were busy snapping beans or husking corn. Grandma never let anyone leave without a box of fresh produce. Any time our parents came to visit, they left well-stocked with garden goods. Fresh tomatoes warm from the vine were not what was dancing in our heads, though. We were waiting on the most important food preparation: ice cream.

I couldn't find a picture that reminded me of our ice cream churn. I think it was blue, and had a silver piece in the middle, and an area to fill with ice and rock salt, and a crank on the side. The adults took turns cranking. And, by magic, ice cream was formed!

There I sat, across the camper table/bed from my cousin, clicking my metal spoon against my olive green Melmac bowl, stirring my ice cream until I had it good and smooth, the way I liked it. My cousin asked what I was doing. She had already eaten her portion.

"I'm stirring it. I like it kind of melty."

"Yuck. Not me. Then it turns into what it was before it was ice cream."

NOOOOO! I loved my ice cream melty. Smooth. Like cold cake batter. No lumps.

Now that's what I think about every time I let my frozen treat get soft and smooth.

STILL TASTES GREAT, THOUGH!