Okay, okay, so that’s not exactly how it goes.  Close enough, though!  And this ice cream blog, like a disappointed lover, let me go.  It let me move to New York, and set up a new apartment, and a new set of social habits.  It let me take on a demanding job. It let me injure my knee and then devote countless hours in futile rehab attempts.  It let me head off on a summer share with 17 of my closest functioning alcoholics friends, become a serial dater, quit dating, start dating again, and even start blogging about bakeries.  Hell, I even tried to like gelato!  (I failed.)  I thought I’d never come back to my emo tales about ice cream and job-lust.

But here I am, my almost-forgotten desire to be an ice cream blogger burbling to the surface like an Arnold Schwarzenagger affair. When you love something, you go back to it.  And man, I love ice cream.  And blogging.  So I’m back, changed, a bit injured (ahem, right knee), and happy to have circled back to my love of ice cream, writing, and questing.

Now that I live in New York, far from the ice cream consumption capital of the US, the “quest” part of the equation is more important than ever.  Scoop shops aren’t on every other corner like they are in Boston.  There are about 17 bojillion spots to get an excellent cup of coffee or even a cupcake, but if you ask someone to name an ice cream shop (not gelato, or fro-yo) within ten blocks, they will most likely look back at you with a blank stare.  In fact, there are only 3 Ben and Jerry’s locations in Manhattan – a city of about 1.7 million people.  (Comparatively, Boston – a city of 600,000 – has 4 locations, 5 if you include Cambridge.)  So, it won’t quite be the “have a bad day, pop next door to Chill” type of experience that I had in Boston, but I’m up for the challenge.  I am up for the quest.

Quests are great, after all.  They lead you to where you should be.  And sometimes, that’s right back where you started.

Mid-toss, a pipsqueak voice from deep in my psyche piped through the dense air of quarter-life crises.  “Ya know what would be good right now?” it asked.   “…Chocolate cake,” it answered.

Before I had any self-awareness regarding the fact that my brain had turned to chocolate cake in its time of need, my thoughts started to scroll through the different varieties of cake.  Buttercream frosting, cupcakes, chocolate mousse, devil’s food…..It was like a slideshow of happiness playing out in my technicolor dreams.  I slept like a baby.

It’s absurd enough that a self-respecting woman would lull herself to sleep with visions of buttercream dancing in her head, but the real story comes from the fact that, in the four days following that cake slideshow, my life was bestowed with four instances of free cake.  The free cupcake at work the following day seemed like serendipitous timing and I wrote it off as such.  The fourth day of free cake, it seemed like something larger was at play.  Had the cake gods smiled upon me?

No, I concluded.  This was something for which I could take personal responsibility.  After all, I willed those images into reality!  This was my doing!  I am so powerfully positive that I built it, and they came!  It seems like I could finally take stock in the variety of self-help recommended by mothers and life coaches nationwide.  I could also confidently state that I have the emotional makeup of Garfield the Cat.

It’s funny that a few days of delicious and moist cake treats could change my outlook so swiftly. In the past, I’ve always wanted to deliver the irritatingly simplistic books a good backhanded slap. You can’t just get what you want!  You can’t just envision something and go get it!  I, for one, spent entire years of my childhood envisioning a go-cart that never came!  I’m calling your bluff, Rhonda Byrne.

However, the unintentional success of the Great Cake Summoning propelled me to reconsider. I decided to test out the theory on something even more important than cake:  ice cream.

On Sunday morning, I set to work envisioning a full day of pre-workweek cleaning, followed by a few money-making hours of babysitting, followed by groceries, followed by laundry, followed by….gasp!…ice cream and socialization.  If this list seems unreasonable to you it is both because I have yet to accept that the universe will never approve my proposal for an extension on the 24-hour day, and because I was testing the theory of willing things into reality.

Also, it bears mentioning that the day after Halloween is rarely useful for anything besides watching unfortunate, still-costumed walks to the T at 10 am.  This provided an appropriate challenge to my positive thinking test, lending credence to any result that could come of it. If you can be productive and socialize after a beer-soaked night dressed as a cat lady, then my goodness, positive thinking must work.

At first, the day went along quite well.  I made muffins, sandwiches, and other non-ice cream food to eat throughout the week.  I cleaned the kitchen and did dishes.  I babysat for two tired preschoolers in the throes of post-Trick-or-Treat sugar hangovers, and did so without a single meltdown.  As I headed towards grocery shopping, it seemed like my plans would work out entirely as I had envisioned.

Cue: the slow melt of exhaustion.  My throat began to swell up in protest of my hedonistic, un-restful ways.  My brain got fuzzy.  My laundry sat, untouched.  I was faced with two choices:  power ahead and go out with my friend Erin, or concede defeat and forego the ice cream trip.  It seemed like, for all of my attempts at summoning, the day would still run a more natural course than the one I wanted it to.

I picked up the phone.  I bailed.  I tried to build it but the ice cream would not come.

And I had to bail, or so I thought.  I had to avoid getting sick, right?  I had to recognize that the day had been productive enough, and that although I was missing a dessert trip and some catch-up conversations, we could always meet up.  I made that decision….and then felt uncomfortable with it.

So I picked up the phone again.  I un-bailed. I pulled on sweats, grabbed a pint of Chunky Monkey from 711, and set out towards Erin’s apartment.  I wasn’t sure how the laundry portion of my aspirations would play out, but I was summoning the ice cream portion, so help me God (slash Ben & Jerry).

I think, in the long run, it worked.  I was able to do all of the things I wanted to do, except laundry.  The most important aspect of the day – aka, the ice cream with a friend – was literally and metaphorically a sweet capstone to the weekend.  It’s true, I did not get the laundry done, and in that way I guess I could tell all of the Secret-readers to take a hike.  But even my Great Cake Summon was imperfect.  One of the cupcakes didn’t have any frosting, but I didn’t mind.  Ninety percent – sometimes it’s good enough.

http://www.boston.com/business/ticker/2009/10/baskinrobbins_t.html

(I’m looking at you, warring reality show contestants.)

And by “we,” I mean…me.

Follow along like the bouncing dot on Disney sing-a-longs…

Recently, this hot piece of real estate became even hotter, when 711 unveiled its $2 pints.  Since these are in the freezer next to the $5 Ben and Jerry’s pints, it was a wise move on their part.  A recent batch of apple crisp begged for a budget-friendly counterpart. The time was ripe to purchase a $2 pint and put Sev-Elev’s marketing to the test.

It was delicious!  I don’t even like vanilla all that much, but the ice cream had a great creamy flavor and a decent consistency.  No ice.  No grittiness, or styrofoam-y ness.  It reminded me a bit of Brigham’s, to be honest.  Real estate prices are soaring above 711s nationwide.

The blender in the background is ready & waiting to make some 711 frappes.

2. Attitude from a high school scooper is easier to get off of your mind than attitude from a date.

3. Indecision in an ice cream shop is ultimately harmless. Indecision in a dating situation means you’ll be living out your days in Relationship Purgatory.

4. Ice Cream is always there for you. True, ice cream won’t hold your hair back when you drink too much jungle juice at a frat party. But, then again, neither will your boyfriend – so it’s a draw.

5. Ice cream never assumes that you are some crazy girl dying to trap someone into a serious relationship. Ice cream knows your life plan involves a dog and lots of independence.  Incidentally, ice cream also knows exactly how crazy you are and doesn’t mind one bit.

6. Ice cream gives you calcium, a vital nutrient. Boyfriends just give you mono.

7. Unlike writing about dating, you can write about ice cream without looking like a self-important hussy. In fact, in my unbiased opinion, writing about ice cream makes you 15% cooler and 20% more erudite. (The guy from the gym might make out with you, but believe me, he will not make you look more erudite.)

8. Ice cream doesn’t get drunk and hit on other girls.

9. Your friends will always want to meet up with you if ice cream is there. If your PDA-centric boyfriend is there…..eh, not so much.

10. Quite simply, nothing brings more joy than a good ice cream cone. If you need to bring out the big guns, make it a sundae. Two cherries. To go.

No, really.  It was just an adorable fall day.  It was Columbus Day, I had taken a 3 hour nap, and Roommate Beth and I had nothing better to do than to go on an ice cream excursion and search for new earrings.  (Okay, that’s a lie.  I did have better things to do – like…oh, I don’t know…find a purpose for my life.  I just had no intention of actually doing that.)

Our excursion to Lizzie’s continued the adorableness.  It was brisk – cool enough for fuzzy fall gear, like scarves and fleece vests.  The afternoon clouds gave muted light to our 4 p.m. journey through suburbia.  We talked about the big houses in Newton as we drove past.  There was a parking spot right in front of the shop on Moody Street, and I take serendipitous parking spots very seriously.

Then, a less-than-adorable thing happened: Beth and I were heckled by an SUV of jeering males.  Now, I’m not talking about your average heckling.  I used to run through seedy neighborhoods in Providence on a daily basis, and was greeted with cries of “Heyyyy, Chicken HIPS!” every single time I crossed paths with one specific bus route.  My tenure as “Chicken Hips” upped my tolerance for Cars That Like to Shout Things, but this car was pointedly mocking my photography of the storefront.  The audacity!  There I was, behaving like a normal, law-abiding citizen who just so happens to have an ice cream blog, and these jamokes had to go and make me feel bad about it.  I hope they get a hair in their mouth and can’t get seem to get it out.  Or a papercut that is slow to heal.  They are dead to me.

I swallowed the indignity of it all and made it inside.  Once in the safety of the storefront-shop, a cacophony of treats flooded my vision and helped me forget the un-adorable jeering.  Slices of carrot cake!  Take-home pints!  40 flavors!  Foamy caffeinated beverages!  Homemade ice cream!  [Insert Howard-Dean-style "Yeeeeeah! scream here.]  The store’s high ceilings seemed filled to the top with goodness and light.  Or – even better – goodness and full-fat.

The choices, of course, tipped off my pattern of asking 9 million questions before choosing something fairly basic.  I know what you’re thinking, and, yes, I am annoying.  But at least I am predictable.  The ice cream scoopers’ union should post my picture and issue a warning that I am frustrating but ultimately harmless – or, maybe they already have.  The workers at Lizzie’s were patient with me through it all, so perhaps they had been warned.  I learned that the Coffee Oreo is a yogurt, not an ice cream – and that their Peanut Butter Cup is actually peanut butter ice cream with peanut butter cups in it.  I prefer more fat and more chocolate, respectively, so those options were out.  Finally, in what can only be described as a moment of genius, I decided to have a scoop of Cinnamon and a scoop of Chocolate Orgy.  (I think I had Ben & Jerry’s Oatmeal Cookie Chunk in the back of my mind.)  The flavors played off of one another like a cute couple that makes you momentarily forget that you hate relationships.  I told you – it was an adorable day.

Beth and I sat in their storefront windows, amidst an interior decorating scheme best described as “Grandma’s Yard Sale Items That Didn’t Sell,” complete with inexplicable cacti in the window.  In this dowdy setting, we tucked into our cones.  The ice cream’s texture was perfect – not whipped, like Farfar’s or 4 Seas – but not so dense as the Ben and Jerry’s that subconsciously inspired me – a great balance.  The Chocolate Orgy, which was comprised of a rich chocolate base and semisweet chocolate chunks, was pretty magnificent.  The Cinnamon had just enough spice to wake up the mellow chocolate.  I hope that the scoopers thought I was a fair-skinned Latina re-creating Mexican Hot Chocolate.  I have always wanted to be Latina.

We left the store happy, full, and mellow.  At $4+ for two scoops the ice cream is too pricey to justify eating consistently, but I did think to myself that I should get Lizzie’s more often.  On our way out, I got a phone call from my  Tiger Beat poster job and became too nervous to eat for the rest of the night.  The night’s stressful turn made me grateful that I had gotten in all of the adorable hours before Tiger Beat called.  I never would’ve had the appetite for chocolate-cinnamon dairy goodness after my phone conversation with Dream Job.  And a day that ends without job search resolution OR a delicious ice cream?  Now, that’s just too sad to bear.

I can focus on the task at hand. Boy, would I make a good employee. Tiger Beat is totally gonna hire me.

Ugly chairs, ugly cacti, ugly paint color. Delicious pumpkin ice cream.

I know these gelato facts not because of any sophistication in my own right, but because a friendly gelato server at Screme in Manhattan indulged my questions.  He also informed me that Screme’s flavors change constantly, and that they are made fresh daily.  It was all quite impressive.  He was very enthusiastic about his product, and I do love an enthusiastic ice cream scooper.  Even though I was actually only interested in something chocolatey and they were startlingly negligent in their chocolate offerings, his enthusiasm won me over and I ended up with a small pumpkin. My friend Nikki and I walked back to her apartment to eat our treats, because this is New York and nothing is convenient.  (Also, the shop has no seating.)

The concept of freshly-made pumpkin gelato on a beautiful New York afternoon seemed like a great fall concept.  Seemed like.  In actuality, it was not-so-great in practice, and this may actually be the first and last time I will ever utter these words:  I regret getting the ice cream.  I was a bit late for my bus back to Boston (I would soon miss it); I hadn’t eaten dinner (I would soon be too full of sugar to eat it), and I knew I wanted something chocolatey but was eating something pumpkiny.  This reality undid the great concept of pumpkin ice cream on a gorgeous fall afternoon.

The moral of this fable, oh Aesop lovers, is to recognize what you actually want.  I wanted one of the following things: to get on the right bus home; to eat a nice, blood-sugar-stabilizing dinner; or chocolate.  (Any list of things that I want can end in “or chocolate.”  Let’s be honest.)  Instead, I got some facts about gelato and cardamom grinds stuck in my teeth.  I zigged when I should’ve zagged.  I’m not sure why.  Maybe because I didn’t want to change plans and upset people around me.

But that’s probably what I should have done.  The lesson of being unafraid to rock the boat hasn’t been lost on me in the days after my New York travels.  I was in NYC to interview for a position that I want in a way I haven’t wanted anything since I was 16 and wanted a prom date.  If there were posters of this job in Tiger Beat magazine, I would plaster them on my walls and kiss them before I went to bed at night.  Unfortunately, at this point, I feel like I have about as good of a chance at actually getting this job as Tiger Beat poster girls have of actually getting the guy.

So the question becomes how to balance what you want (the job, a good dinner, or chocolate) with what one can actually get (a more conventional job, a pumpkin gelato)?  I don’t have the answer.  But I know that, in the case of the job, I’m going after it in spite of all logical plans.  I know I’m on a tightrope without a safety net.  I know.  I just can’t help feeling like the alternative is vague regret and some cardamom stuck in my teeth.

Gelato in the urban jungle.

Enthusiastic scooper on the left...pretty scooper on the right.

Nik and I posing with my "conflicting emotions" pumpkin gelato.

Second of all, I only made it through the first six sentences before I knew that an $18 million investment in this contraption is a fantastic idea.

And finally – a note to the company: You call yourself Moobella? Like a cow prostitute? I like it….

Thanks for sending this along, CariMay.

One side’s sad

One side’s happy