The Ice Man Cometh (and Enjoyeth)
Published on Wed, Jul 28, 2010 by Chuck SigarsRead More Chuck's World
This is how crazy I’ve become: The other day I made frozen yogurt.
This is me we’re talking about, fanboy of anything ice cream, an ice cream aficionado, a True Believer in the world-changing properties of frozen grace. It’s my weakness and my passion, and sometimes, late at night, it’s my only company.
There’s no bad day (or good one, for that matter) that can’t be overcome by a big bowl of ice cream, but let’s be serious: Who needs a bowl when you have a quart and a long spoon? Let’s not make it more complicated than it needs to be, people.
I’m not a snob, either. Give me a bottom-shelf, store-brand ice cream made mostly with air and I’ll still have something nice to say about it. But get me within tongue distance of something in the gourmet category, made with lots of egg yolks and vanilla bean and cream from a cow in a good mood and I’m lost, blissful and incapable of making a good decision. This would be the time to ask me to help you move or sell me an extended warranty; I’ve gone to another place. A cold, sweet place.
I’m an equal-opportunity, lactose-tolerant consumer. No purity here, no “only chocolate with chocolate sauce” nonsense for me. I’m a progressive eater (not in that way, but also in that way). I have favorites and they change from time to time, but offer me some prune-and-broccoli ice cream and sure, I’ll have a bite or two and say thanks for thinking of me.
The origins of ice cream are shrouded, although there’s evidence some version has been enjoyed in Persia since 400 B.C.E. And although apocryphal, it’s said that what we now recognize as ice cream was perfected during the Song Dynasty in China using snow and saltpeter to freeze syrup. It was supposedly a favorite of Kublai Khan, who kept it a state secret until Marco Polo smuggled it back to Italy in the 13th century, thus expanding European dessert cuisine and the art of lying about why your tunic fits more snugly than it used to (quick, bring me more saltpeter!).
And then Americans invented ice, and so on.
So why frozen yogurt, you ask? Well, to paraphrase Sir Edmund Hillary, I had some yogurt around. And an ice cream maker.
Let me be clear: I have a strong opinion, and my opinion is that frozen yogurt is like watching an Elvis impersonator. It’s amusing for a minute, and then you realize that what was intended to be an affectionate tribute has devolved into parody. Frozen yogurt represents the long sideburns of the ice cream world.
It’s an alternative, though, if not healthier then lighter and with fewer calories. And my version, in fact, turned out to be the no-calorie variety, since no one ate it, not even me (it’s apparently a tricky science, frozen yogurt, or else I used too much mint. At any rate, it was horrible).
But enough about ice cream and ice cream imposters. What I’m talking about is summer.
Not technical summer, which has been going on for over a month. Not even Western Washington summer, a season we all know and love, which comes late to the party but lingers long enough to sometimes give us a spectacular Halloween.
I’m talking about now, the last week of July and first week of August, when statistically we’re at our sunniest, warmest and driest, a respite from same-old, a postcard from the South Pacific. Don’t talk to me about June-uary or morning clouds or rainy Fourths of July; I griped as much as anyone over our long and soggy spring but that’s an indulgence, venting in a rough year.
Because if we’re anything in this corner of the country, we’re practitioners of delayed gratification. It’s part of our nature, the part that keeps us polite but distant, independent and suspicious, caffeinated and diverse. We know a secret, in other words, and the secret is summer, and summer is vague and mostly ill-defined but when it’s here we rejoice, and it’s here now.
Relax, February. All is forgiven.
It’s not even my favorite time of year. That would be autumn, when I get to wallow in fallen leaves and stick my nose in the air to find the first hints of wood stoves and caramel. I love everything about autumn, including November.
But this is when I get giddy, just for a few weeks. I reject socks and long pants, I make peace with my blackberry brambles, I wear sunglasses to bed and I listen to the Beach Boys all day long. I am a boy of summer, for a moment, by which I mean now, as I said, and for which I need ice cream, as I also said, keep your dumb yogurt, thank you very much.
This is me we’re talking about, fanboy of anything ice cream, an ice cream aficionado, a True Believer in the world-changing properties of frozen grace. It’s my weakness and my passion, and sometimes, late at night, it’s my only company.
There’s no bad day (or good one, for that matter) that can’t be overcome by a big bowl of ice cream, but let’s be serious: Who needs a bowl when you have a quart and a long spoon? Let’s not make it more complicated than it needs to be, people.
I’m not a snob, either. Give me a bottom-shelf, store-brand ice cream made mostly with air and I’ll still have something nice to say about it. But get me within tongue distance of something in the gourmet category, made with lots of egg yolks and vanilla bean and cream from a cow in a good mood and I’m lost, blissful and incapable of making a good decision. This would be the time to ask me to help you move or sell me an extended warranty; I’ve gone to another place. A cold, sweet place.
I’m an equal-opportunity, lactose-tolerant consumer. No purity here, no “only chocolate with chocolate sauce” nonsense for me. I’m a progressive eater (not in that way, but also in that way). I have favorites and they change from time to time, but offer me some prune-and-broccoli ice cream and sure, I’ll have a bite or two and say thanks for thinking of me.
The origins of ice cream are shrouded, although there’s evidence some version has been enjoyed in Persia since 400 B.C.E. And although apocryphal, it’s said that what we now recognize as ice cream was perfected during the Song Dynasty in China using snow and saltpeter to freeze syrup. It was supposedly a favorite of Kublai Khan, who kept it a state secret until Marco Polo smuggled it back to Italy in the 13th century, thus expanding European dessert cuisine and the art of lying about why your tunic fits more snugly than it used to (quick, bring me more saltpeter!).
And then Americans invented ice, and so on.
So why frozen yogurt, you ask? Well, to paraphrase Sir Edmund Hillary, I had some yogurt around. And an ice cream maker.
Let me be clear: I have a strong opinion, and my opinion is that frozen yogurt is like watching an Elvis impersonator. It’s amusing for a minute, and then you realize that what was intended to be an affectionate tribute has devolved into parody. Frozen yogurt represents the long sideburns of the ice cream world.
It’s an alternative, though, if not healthier then lighter and with fewer calories. And my version, in fact, turned out to be the no-calorie variety, since no one ate it, not even me (it’s apparently a tricky science, frozen yogurt, or else I used too much mint. At any rate, it was horrible).
But enough about ice cream and ice cream imposters. What I’m talking about is summer.
Not technical summer, which has been going on for over a month. Not even Western Washington summer, a season we all know and love, which comes late to the party but lingers long enough to sometimes give us a spectacular Halloween.
I’m talking about now, the last week of July and first week of August, when statistically we’re at our sunniest, warmest and driest, a respite from same-old, a postcard from the South Pacific. Don’t talk to me about June-uary or morning clouds or rainy Fourths of July; I griped as much as anyone over our long and soggy spring but that’s an indulgence, venting in a rough year.
Because if we’re anything in this corner of the country, we’re practitioners of delayed gratification. It’s part of our nature, the part that keeps us polite but distant, independent and suspicious, caffeinated and diverse. We know a secret, in other words, and the secret is summer, and summer is vague and mostly ill-defined but when it’s here we rejoice, and it’s here now.
Relax, February. All is forgiven.
It’s not even my favorite time of year. That would be autumn, when I get to wallow in fallen leaves and stick my nose in the air to find the first hints of wood stoves and caramel. I love everything about autumn, including November.
But this is when I get giddy, just for a few weeks. I reject socks and long pants, I make peace with my blackberry brambles, I wear sunglasses to bed and I listen to the Beach Boys all day long. I am a boy of summer, for a moment, by which I mean now, as I said, and for which I need ice cream, as I also said, keep your dumb yogurt, thank you very much.