You Scream, I Do Something Else Entirely — For Ice Cream
It’s a blisteringly hot summer day in Albuquerque and mom has hauled her three monkey children to the swimming pool at the Coronado Club (inside of Kirtland Air Force Base) to cool off and work off some energy.
I’ve swam and swam until all my digits are little prunes and then I swim a little bit more for good measure. Exhausted, I finally drag myself out of the pool to lay on the scalding hot concrete and let the sun dry chlorinated water from my arms and legs.
Mom is out in the grassy area surrounding the pool reading a book or chatting with friends. She always finds a lot of folks she knows at the Coronado Club. She’s been coming here since she was just eighteen.
I find my mom and plop into a lawn chair with my beach towel. Starving, I gulp down a sandwich or some cold fried chicken or whatever fun stuff mom has packed into the ice chest.
As the late afternoon sun begins to cast slanted shadows on the ground, if I’m lucky and have been a good kid, I’ll ask my mom for some money and she’ll agree. Cash in hand, I’ll dash to the food stand and procure a soft serve vanilla or chocolate ice cream in a cone.
I’ll bear the thing proudly, like Lady Liberty and her torch, then I’ll savor every last drippy bite.
Ah, summer and ice cream were made for each other.
However, lately, something dark and insidious rumbles inside of me, irrevocably breaking the summer fun and ice cream connection.
Seems I’ve developed a little ol’ thing called lactose intolerance.
It ain’t right. It’s some cosmic comedy, it has to be. Dairy and I are friends from way back. Ok, I can’t stand fluid milk, but sour cream, all manner of cheese, ice cream and half and half in my coffee are what make walking in this mean old world seem tolerable.
The Good Man marvels still at the vast array of dairy products I have in my fridge. I have a whole drawer devoted to cheese! Well, I used to…
Me? Lactose intolerant? It just isn’t even funny. Not one little bit.
I took my concerns to my doctor who nodded thoughtfully and said, “Well, you know, that happens pretty frequently to people over the age of forty. It’s common as we age.”
Great. That makes me feel ever so much better.
I use Lactaid and it helps some. It is, at best, an imperfect solution.
The only real cure is to stop eating dairy entirely.
Well that ain’t gonna happen.
That said, I have cut waaaaay back. And because the universe has a really excellent sense of humor, I also get rumbly tummy from soy milk, the most common substitute.
So far hemp milk and almond milk are my frontrunners for adding to coffee and having an ice cream-like treat.
They are fine, but just…not the same.
“I scream, you scream, we all scream for almond milk iced dessert” just doesn’t have the same ring.
Because we don’t all scream for that.
Image is, of course, The Scream by Edvard Munch, and is used under Fair Use as the image is considered Public Domain in the United States.
This week’s Theme Thursday is: ice cream
Nice weaving of ice cream prose with a screaming picture~ My son (still young) is also lactose intolerant so I have seen that hemp and almond milk ~ Not quite the real thing but its close ~ But I agree, summer and ice cream are made for each other ~
Hi Grace – There’s screaming and then there’s *screaming*! LOL!!
Thanks for dropping by and for the comment!!
I think you come by it naturally. All that gas Dad made over the years was probably lactose intolerance as well. I also think that was partly the source of Gramma S’s orneryness. Jacob has it too.
Big Bro – Never really thought about it, but you might be right. Gramma S had something like diverticulitis or something too. And Grandpa R had all manner of tummy issues too.
I guess I was just DOOOOOOMED!