Hayseed Huck
04-11-2010, 12:15 PM
In front of me here at Blue Bunny-- the most yummiest
ice cream sundae this side of Canada. Two large dips
with caramel sliding over one and pineapple over the
other...
toppling and tumbling, and all messy with whipped
cream and two mammouth, succulent strawberries riding
the peaks and sweet gravity edging into the crevass
carrying pecans and walnuts sugared with honey and
sugared emendations.
Try having that thrown at you from all sides and at
the most basic of primal levels, and then not want to
follow the rainbow-of-cream and see where it ends.
You don't know until you're hit on by every Bunny coun-
ter girl standing behind the counter, hip flexed, serving
ice cream every day wearing that checkered blue and white
apron and tossing their hair.
You just can't sit idly by and let that sundae melt.
The Big Yummy.
Oh dear God. Yes.
Until you are all aswim and all gasping at the flavors,
with nonstop images of sticky confectious gorgements
engaged in all manners of vessels full of sodas and
malts and down your chin cones dripping chocolate and
butter pecan.
It's just what we do.
We can't resist imagining all those heaps and piles of
shimmery, cream-bursting deserts-- sundaes all giggly
and kissing the banana muffins and posiing in front of
the mirror behind the counter.
Then, with the last spooned-up slurp of vanilla laced
with pineapple chunks making their way to the back of
your throat, you think of your appetite as awful, gross,
pathetic, menial, pointless, degrading, shameful, troub-
ling, guilty and maybe diabeticallly-ridden.
What potentially fatal energies are you toying with?
Oh my God-- ice cream eating is so sexy! So scary!
And the next minute you're asking the girl behind the
counter if she plans to introduce some new blends for
your tongue the next time you visit the parlor.
You worry about your cognitive dissonance, given how
painfully obvious it is that you are totally enraptured
with how marvelous, lucious, fragrant, transcendent, an-
nunciating, 'fun-as'hell,' liberating, necessary and de-
lirious a man's relationship with ice cream can be.
Modern cellular technology
You send a text-- "I really like Magyar milk shakes with
double, thick straws."
You send it to 250 strangers in your office calling cir-
cle-- people who might buy gold and silver as investment.
You wait for an answer. They answer,
"We Do Too!"
Shocking!
The come photos of banana splits in all their varieties--
the sliced banana legs spread and drowned with syrups,
and heavy spiced preserved fruits and the obligatory whip-
cream and cherries. Suddenly we have testosterone-cream-
ed men asking girls to send them naked photos of their
ice cream cartons unopened and empty pails, of their dip-
pers and you want to know whether they prefer spooning to
front-to-front assaults by mouth on extra hard flavors.
And then the question of 'sticky ickiness' comes up-- mat-
ters of eating out of the carton instead of proper dishing.
'YIKES! sinful and wrong and dangerous, not to mention to-
tally disgusting, is what it is.
What if someone else wants to ladle-up some and here your
saliva has been distributed all over the surface of a va-
nilla cream mound of Blue Bunny.
Unless it's completely normal and relatively harmless,
but you're not liking to swap spit in ice cream because
you are a whiny out-of-touch weeny boy who grew up with
a mother who always demanded you wash your hands ten
times a day and never eat without proper napkins handy
(and never touch your privates).
Urgent and timeless questions.
Is it better to let it melt in your mouth? Size of bites.
Are brain freezes common? After full melting, is it ok to
refreeze? Will there ever come a time when we fully com-
prehend the vagaries and desires of the those who prefer
their cream homogenized?
Pasteurized?
Sometimes when I'm relaxed at Blue Bunny's, I like to
play in my sundae-- just slap it with my spoon, swirl it
around, cream and thury it, mix the clear with the yel-
low, the thick with the thin, the lime-grape with the
cinnamon taste that always hides in the rear of the bowl,
but so easily encouraged to allow pursed sampling.
Tonguing exposed plums centered in the most sublime con-
coction has always spelled the end of my visits to Blue
Bunny.
It's how I complete my feast.
HH
ice cream sundae this side of Canada. Two large dips
with caramel sliding over one and pineapple over the
other...
toppling and tumbling, and all messy with whipped
cream and two mammouth, succulent strawberries riding
the peaks and sweet gravity edging into the crevass
carrying pecans and walnuts sugared with honey and
sugared emendations.
Try having that thrown at you from all sides and at
the most basic of primal levels, and then not want to
follow the rainbow-of-cream and see where it ends.
You don't know until you're hit on by every Bunny coun-
ter girl standing behind the counter, hip flexed, serving
ice cream every day wearing that checkered blue and white
apron and tossing their hair.
You just can't sit idly by and let that sundae melt.
The Big Yummy.
Oh dear God. Yes.
Until you are all aswim and all gasping at the flavors,
with nonstop images of sticky confectious gorgements
engaged in all manners of vessels full of sodas and
malts and down your chin cones dripping chocolate and
butter pecan.
It's just what we do.
We can't resist imagining all those heaps and piles of
shimmery, cream-bursting deserts-- sundaes all giggly
and kissing the banana muffins and posiing in front of
the mirror behind the counter.
Then, with the last spooned-up slurp of vanilla laced
with pineapple chunks making their way to the back of
your throat, you think of your appetite as awful, gross,
pathetic, menial, pointless, degrading, shameful, troub-
ling, guilty and maybe diabeticallly-ridden.
What potentially fatal energies are you toying with?
Oh my God-- ice cream eating is so sexy! So scary!
And the next minute you're asking the girl behind the
counter if she plans to introduce some new blends for
your tongue the next time you visit the parlor.
You worry about your cognitive dissonance, given how
painfully obvious it is that you are totally enraptured
with how marvelous, lucious, fragrant, transcendent, an-
nunciating, 'fun-as'hell,' liberating, necessary and de-
lirious a man's relationship with ice cream can be.
Modern cellular technology
You send a text-- "I really like Magyar milk shakes with
double, thick straws."
You send it to 250 strangers in your office calling cir-
cle-- people who might buy gold and silver as investment.
You wait for an answer. They answer,
"We Do Too!"
Shocking!
The come photos of banana splits in all their varieties--
the sliced banana legs spread and drowned with syrups,
and heavy spiced preserved fruits and the obligatory whip-
cream and cherries. Suddenly we have testosterone-cream-
ed men asking girls to send them naked photos of their
ice cream cartons unopened and empty pails, of their dip-
pers and you want to know whether they prefer spooning to
front-to-front assaults by mouth on extra hard flavors.
And then the question of 'sticky ickiness' comes up-- mat-
ters of eating out of the carton instead of proper dishing.
'YIKES! sinful and wrong and dangerous, not to mention to-
tally disgusting, is what it is.
What if someone else wants to ladle-up some and here your
saliva has been distributed all over the surface of a va-
nilla cream mound of Blue Bunny.
Unless it's completely normal and relatively harmless,
but you're not liking to swap spit in ice cream because
you are a whiny out-of-touch weeny boy who grew up with
a mother who always demanded you wash your hands ten
times a day and never eat without proper napkins handy
(and never touch your privates).
Urgent and timeless questions.
Is it better to let it melt in your mouth? Size of bites.
Are brain freezes common? After full melting, is it ok to
refreeze? Will there ever come a time when we fully com-
prehend the vagaries and desires of the those who prefer
their cream homogenized?
Pasteurized?
Sometimes when I'm relaxed at Blue Bunny's, I like to
play in my sundae-- just slap it with my spoon, swirl it
around, cream and thury it, mix the clear with the yel-
low, the thick with the thin, the lime-grape with the
cinnamon taste that always hides in the rear of the bowl,
but so easily encouraged to allow pursed sampling.
Tonguing exposed plums centered in the most sublime con-
coction has always spelled the end of my visits to Blue
Bunny.
It's how I complete my feast.
HH