You can hear it coming from at least two blocks away. At first, it’s a faint echo, like you’re remembering a nursery rhyme from your early years. But then, it gets loud enough for you to make out the tune. Your pupils dilate, your heart skips a beat and you know it’s time: the ice cream man is coming.
Nothing says summer quite like the ice cream truck as it slowly meanders through your neighborhood. When I was a kid, we lived off the beaten path. Our house was the only one occupied by kids so the truck almost never came our way. However, my cousin lived on a block with about 732 children so the ice cream truck was a nearly constant presence every night. We ran around catching fireflies, hoping for a brief glimpse at their glowing wonder but the second that jingle was audible, the bugs were abandoned and children from all over came running. Like cockroaches crawling from the woodwork when the lights go out, we swarmed the truck, jostling one another for position and shouting out orders.
Our current neighborhood doesn’t have quite as many children as my cousin’s did, but there is at least one kid in nearly every house so we’re quite a draw for the ice cream man. I remember my surprise our first summer. The music started and I felt a mix of that old excitement mixed with a mother’s dread. Thankfully, my son was just a year old so I had time to prepare.
I heard rumors from my sister that her sister-in-law told her kids that the ice cream truck was actually the music truck, sent to town to play nursery rhymes for all the good children. Of course, I milked that for as many years as I could, but eventually, they figured it out and I had a choice to make. As they begged and pleaded for some frozen wonder proffered by someone I was not completely sure should be dealing with children, I felt a mix of the sheer joy of a child, mixed with the trepidation of a mother. The ice cream trucks wares are a mix of artificial flavors, high fructose corn syrup, trans fat and several potent, colorful, man-made dyes. It’s like kryptonite to a natural momma.
But I was a kid once, too. And I feel like every kid should be able to experience that feeling, the pure, unadulterated joy that only a red, white and blue snow cone can bring. So each year, we haggle with the kids like street vendors.
“MOM!! The ice cream truck is coming! Can I have some money??”
“Not today.”
“MOM! Why not?? He’s almost here! Please! Please, Mom? I won’t ask for anything else all summer!”
And the dance goes round and round. Once a summer, I give in. Every year, at some point, my inner kid wins and I shell over too much money for poison on a stick. And there is much rejoicing.
After nearly a decade of this, we finally came up with a game plan. Memorial Day weekend, we handed each kid five dollars. That was their ice cream truck money for the summer. It would cover one truck stop, one icy confection. Choose wisely because there would be no more cash.
Since my son is a teenager, the joy has diminished. Particularly since we live walking distance from three different ice cream shops. He promptly took his money and went directly to town.
The wee one is not quite old enough for this and besides, she still loves the chase. So it was with screams of glee that we were notified of the first coming of the ice cream truck this season.
“MOMMMYYYYYY!!!”
I thought she had been hit by a car. I’m serious. I dropped the dish I was washing in the sink and flew out to the street as I saw her running top speed towards me, still screeching.
“What’s wrong?! Are you OK?!”
“It’s the ice cream truck! I need my money!”
The adrenalin was still coursing through my veins, prepared to lift her little body and run to the hospital if need be. But since she just wanted cash, I had to redirect the surge.
“Are you freaking kidding me?! I thought you were dying! Don’t ever scream like that again, unless you are, in fact, dying. Jeez-us. I could have had a heart attack!”
She was looking at me, but I could tell by looking into her wild eyes that she had not heard anything, since none of the words were “money” or “ice cream.” She pushed past me to her cash stash and was quickly back out the door and down the road.
Unfortunately, our little exchange delayed her just enough to let the ice cream truck get away. Her disappointment was palpable, but it was still early in the season. I assured her the truck would soon return. She put her money away and went back to her regularly scheduled childhood.
It became harder to reassure her after the fourth time Mr. Softee passed us by. It also became harder to calm her hysteria.
“Why won’t he stop? Why does the ice cream man hate me?”
Whenever the faint sound of the nursery rhyme began, instead of happiness and excitement, she would break out her mad face, “I’m going to catch him this time, Mommy.”
We started to get a little concerned.
One evening, she was on the trampoline with a friend, happily flipping and twisting, when the truck started its merry tune. Even her top-speed sprint was too slow. She trailed behind the truck, screaming, “ICE CREAM!” just a little too far back to be noticed or just a little too scary for the driver to acknowledge.
She returned home, winded and dejected.
“It’s 7:06. I’m taking my $5 and I’m sitting on the curb until 8 p.m. I’m going to catch him, Mommy. I’m going to get my White Whale.”
And with grim determination, she set forth. That night, for 54 minutes, she waited, sitting on the cement curb, ignoring the laughter and merriment of the neighborhood kids, hoping for the truck’s return.
This went on for about a month and our concern was mounting, but it was June and I had my own insanely busy life to deal with so I tried to ignore her looming psychosis. And then it happened. It was a Monday night and I was at a meeting when my phone vibrated. The photo said it all.
“I caught the White Whale!”
I called up for a recap and was regaled with tales of clanging change and fumbled cash. There was much screaming and spastic movements, but it was done. Mr. Softee had finally been caught. A task, it seems, that should not have been so difficult. I’m thinking that perhaps he needs a different line of work. Anyway, there was much rejoicing and she wasn’t even upset about the money that had somehow, in the ruckus, flown into the sky and was still somewhere in the lawn. Ahh, to be a kid again.
My entire family has a huge obsession with ice cream. I could take it or leave it. But that doesn’t mean I don’t have a crazy sweet tooth. As an adult, I’ve tried to throw in a little something healthy, to minimize the guilt. I found this amazing (but super involved) recipe for toasted coconut cashews. The woman who created it should be sainted or deigned a kitchen deity or something. I could eat these all dang day.
Coconut Cashews
1 cup raw cashews
1/4 cup sugar
1/4 cup water
1/4 cup toasted unsweetened coconut
1/2 teaspoon big-flake sea salt (I use Maldon)
In a large, heavy skillet over medium heat, add the cashews, sugar, and water. With a heat-proof spatula, move the cashews around, stirring constantly as the sugar melts. After it melts, watch the pan very carefully, as it burns easily. The liquid will evaporate, and the cashews will dry and look sugar-coated. Keep stirring, until the sugar melts down and the cashews begin to brown.
Keep stirring constantly, reducing the heat if the pan begins to smoke. When the sugar remelts, remove the pan from the heat, and stir in the coconut and sea salt. Spread the nuts out on a parchment-lined cookie sheet and cool. Keeps for weeks.
It doesn’t seem like the sugar will re-melt, but patience, grasshopper. It will happen.
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