Fireworks in the Cold Mouth

When I was a kid, I was fortunate enough to escape the Florida heat and my messy, angst-filled adolescent life there and spend summers in Denver with my Aunt Kay and Uncle Earl. Once or twice during the summer Earl would fire up his massive Ford LTD and head up to the Dolly (shoulda been Dolley) Madison Ice Cream store at University and Bonnie Brae. I guess the franchise didn’t realize they spelled her name wrong until after they did the paperwork, and then decided: Screw it. I’m not paying for that just because it's missing an E.  Earl would come back with peppermint ice cream for me, because he knew it was my favorite, and butter brickle for the two of them. I usually ate twice the peppermint compared to what the two of them consumed of the brickle.

 

I had been a picky eater all of my life, and my aunt had a way of getting me to try new things that no one else had the patience for. I wouldn’t eat apple pie until she made me taste hers. Before Aunt Kay got me to try a mixed green salad with homemade dressing, I would only pick at an undressed iceberg lettuce wedge. I never had lettuce and tomato on a hamburger until she got me to sample one. She always made sun tea with a mix of gunpowder and jasmine teas, which I would only drink with a fist full of sugar added to the glass. She reduced my sugar allotment until I discovered that it tasted so much better unsweetened. I still drink it every day. She would always say, “What’s the matter? Are you afraid you’re going to like it?” I had heard stories from my cousins about her setting the clock on the oven and standing over them with a fly swatter until they ate their vegetables. I think they always complied by eating or hiding the vegetables in a drawer at the end of the table before the timer rang. She was always much more gentle with me. It was because I was so crazy about her and loved both of them so much that I figured the least I could do for their hospitality was to be a little daring with new foods.

 

So there came a time where I had eaten all of the peppermint, and all that was left was some butter brickle. Just the word “butter” when paired with “ice cream” didn’t sit well with me.

 

“Why don’t you try some?” She offered.

 

“No, thank you!” I said politely.

 

“What’s the matter? Are you afraid you’re going to like it?”

 

Reluctantly, I took a small teaspoon of it out of her bowl and put it in my mouth, and the strangest thing happened. The clouds in the sky parted, and a flock of angels appeared, crooning Handel’s Hallelujah Chorus. Fireworks of brown sugar syrup exploded from my taste buds. Where can I meet the person who created this wonderful concoction so I can thank them, I wondered.

 

And just then a tiny hologram of DollEy Madison appeared on the platter of leftover corn flake chicken.

 

“Congratulations, Bill!” She chimed. “You are now one of the chosen who holds the secret of an obscure ice cream flavor. Share it sparingly, for it will not be around forever.”

 

And then she disappeared. And Earl never again had to bring home two different flavors. We all shared a butter brickle bond.

 

It was just the best stuff in the world. But Dolley was correct. Eventually her ice cream store went out of business, and the butter brickle became extinct as things like frozen yogurt and gelato, and the I-gag-when-I-think-about-it Dippin Dots took over the frozen confection world.

 

Off and on throughout the years, I tried to find a company that made my favorite dessert, but it was nowhere to be found. A few years ago before we flew out to San Francisco for vacation, I found online an ice cream shop in Oakland that served butter brickle! After the plane landed and we settled in at our one-star hotel, I couldn’t get to the BART station fast enough so I could once again, after four decades, have those wonderful exploding taste buds, and maybe once again see the hologram. Maybe this time it would be a Kay and Earl hologram! So we schlepped over there, and in eager anticipation, I ordered 3 large scoops of it, as did Other Bill, because I assured him that it would be the the culinary experience of a lifetime. What they brought out wasn’t butter brickle, and it was grey in color. It even tasted grey. It was slimy and chalky at the same time. I took a few bites and left two and a half scoops on the table. Grey matter ice cream was a huge disappointment. Even Other Bill couldn’t stomach it, and that speaks volumes. It is a known fact that he will eat rotten catfish nuggets just so they don’t go to waste.

 

The old adage “If you want anything done right, do it yourself” applies here. So this weekend we paid five bucks and a bag of avocados for an electric ice cream maker. If you think I have the patience or the youthly muscles to sit and turn a crank for 45 minutes while not watching porn, think again. 

 

Even with electricity, ice cream is a pain in the ass to make. And it is crazy expensive. To do it right, it takes 2 days to cook the milky, sugary mixture, chill it overnight, mix in more ingredients the next day and go temporarily deaf while the machine screams, whines, and churns.

 

The best thing about making your own ice cream is that you can be sure it is real, high-fat, high-sugar ice cream with no artificial ingredients. Look at store-bought ice cream cartons carefully. Most of them say, ”Frozen Dairy Desert” or “Janitor in a Drum.” It’s not real ice cream and tastes pretty nasty.

 

I haven’t had real butter brickle ice cream in probably 50 years, but tonight I again the tasted the frozen delight that Uncle Earl treated us to every summer. Again my tastebuds sparkled and an orchestra played. I thought a hologram was about to appear, but it just turned out to be my cataracts. 

 

In the end, it’s worth the cost and aggravation to have my taste buds conjure up those memories. So thank you, Dolley. And thank you, Uncle Earl and Aunt Kay.