No One Needs to Know about This

This girl right here? She loves her ice cream. A half gallon of any flavor is not safe in her freezer. It is her kryptonite. Not that she's Superman, or anything; just implying the magnitude of her weakness.

In college, one of her sweetest memories involved a carton of ice cream, two spoons, and her roommate, on the floor of their bedroom. Yeah, she loves her ice cream.

Let me tell you about one time, long ago, when she was a young bride. No, I better let her tell it. She was there. She remembers it well. How could she ever forget?

The year was 1988; my son Dylan was just a baby. We were living in an old meat packing plant on the Glenwood Road in Richfield, Utah. Several rooms had been converted into living quarters, sort of. The master bedroom had stenciled letters on the hollow core wooden door that read, "Manager's Office." The bathroom door had a stenciled reminder, "Please wash hands before returning to work." There were drains in the floor of the tiled "living room," and the only electrical outlet in the kitchen was attached to the baseboard heater on the floor. It was barely a house, but it is where I lived with my then-husband, my baby, and a very good friend who was newly divorced. Our friend was staying in the spare bedroom, and Dylan's crib was by the bed in the "manager's office."

Our friend loved ice cream, too, but probably wasn't aware of how much I loved ice cream because he foolishly bought Snelgrove's Vanilla Bean ice cream, and put it in our freezer to enjoy later. We shared the food in the kitchen at the packing house, and he had reminded me to help myself to the anything he bought, but it was with great guilt one day that I took his ice cream from the freezer. My baby was napping, and I had the house to myself. The men were off trapping on the desert, and wouldn't be home until after dark.

Snelgrove's was an expensive brand of ice cream made in Salt Lake City until the Dreyer company bought them out in 1990. I always bought the generic Albertson's brand when I wanted to indulge. I don't think I'd ever even had vanilla bean flavor. (Didn't vanilla come out of a small bottle? There were beans involved?)

When I removed the lid of the half gallon cylinder, I could see that he had enjoyed a dish of ice cream already. There was probably a cup's worth missing. I reminded myself that he had always said to help myself to any of his food. I grabbed a spoon, and scooped out as much as would fit in it, and popped it in my mouth, freeing up my hands to replace the lid, and I returned the carton to the freezer.

At that time, I wouldn't think vanilla bean would be that great of a flavor; I preferred chocolate anything back then, but it was so creamy and smooth, I found it to be delicious. I pulled the spoon out of my mouth slowly, only taking a couple of layers off of the top of the ice cream with my teeth, and I savored the creamy deliciousness. In no time at all, the spoon was empty, and I eyed the refrigerator. 

"What's mine is yours," he had said. He wouldn't mind if I had a dish of ice cream. I grabbed a bowl from the cupboard, and helped myself to a generous portion of ice cream. 

Throughout that Saturday, I enjoyed working my way down to the bottom of the carton. It was gone. I had consumed at least ten servings of ice cream by myself. Yes, if I were a Hobbit, I would have eaten ice cream for all six of my meals that day.

Now the reality of what I had done set in. I was embarrassed to think that when the guys got home from trapping, there would be no ice cream in the freezer, and I would have to admit what I'd done. No, I couldn't have that happen. 

I scooped up my baby, grabbed my purse, and we headed back to Albertson's grocery store. I made a beeline for the freezer section, selected a carton of expensive Snelgrove's ice cream, vanilla bean, of course, and hurried home with my purchase. No one would be the wiser. Except.

When I had opened the carton that morning, there was only a serving or two missing. If there were a fresh, unopened carton of Snelgrove's ice cream in the freezer, it would be obvious that the original carton had gone somewhere. I did what any self-respecting binge-eater would do. I fixed myself another bowl of ice cream, careful to take enough out of the carton to duplicate the way the first carton looked when I first began my ice cream debacle. And I ate one more generous serving of ice cream before anyone was any the wiser.

Shhh...don't tell. Now you know just how much I love my ice cream, and the lengths to which I will go to keep my secret safe. No one else needs to know about this. It will be our little secret.