Of Playthings and Puppets

There’s only a handful of things I really, truly, honestly friggin’ love more than anything else. One of these is my fiance, Kim, who is much more than perfect (you’ll see why later down this post). And as much as she would love to have this entry be written about her… it isn’t. This is about another thing I absolutely love. And that thing is…

Ice cream.

I love it. Truly. I don’t know how people can live without it. It might be a family trait: My earliest memories of eating and actually enjoying ice cream occurred at my great-grandfather’s house, where a pint of Turkey Hill Vanilla Bean or French Vanilla was always chilling in the freezer, just waiting for my spoon to break its pristine surface. My grandfather, whom I barely knew, ate ice cream (I believe it was chocolate) the majority of his life, introducing my mom into the same kind of fate, who thus passed the idea of the after-dinner bowl into my life.

So, needless to say, I’ve been eating ice cream almost as long as I’ve been able to pee (2 seconds in!). My tastes have changed drastically over the years, from vanilla to chocolate, Neopolitan to Fudge Ripple, Cookies ‘N Cream to Chocolate Chip Cookie Cookie Dough, but in 2007, my current favorite was introduced by little known ice cream makers Ben Cohen and Jerry Greenfield with a little help from one Stephen Colbert.

My infatuation with the wonderful creation boldly named Americone Dream began one fateful night during my junior year of college. Perry, my possibly insane yet lovable roommate, happened to stop by Store 24–the local get-everything-you-can-possibly-need-while-in-college shop–and picked himself up a pint of cold, delicious goodness alongside several other assorted nick-knacks.

I thought nothing of it. I believe, actually, that I was knee deep in a game of Halo 3 and subsequently couldn’t care about anything except if it happened to block the TV. So, sitting at his computer, reading Wikipedia, listening to music, and breaking into random hysterical bouts of laughter, Perry peeled the wrapper from the B&J, and began slowly and methodically chomping away. Several minutes later, with half of the ice cream in his stomach and the rest steadily melting into a viscous pool of milky splendor, Perry, decidedly finished, said, “Dude, you wanna finish this?”

Now, I’m not the biggest germaphobe in the world by a long shot. I fully abide the five second rule, believe I have the spit of the Gods, and trust fire to kill anything that happened to land improperly on a slab of meat. But, you have to understand Perry. Junior year, there was a visible line separating our two sides, dust on his side, clean carpet on my own. Mountains of laundry, rags, empty containers, tissues, crumpled pages, and other indiscriminate filth populated his area. So, if I said no, the precious B&J would simply be added to the crude trophy case of trash that was his desk; yet, if I said yes, I somehow felt I would be violating some unspoken medical rule regarding the spread of germs and death and… I don’t know. It just didn’t seem right.

In the end, I simply couldn’t refuse ice cream. So, of course I said, “Yeah, sure.”

Oh, what joy. What an amazing flavor! My mouth was ablaze with excitement! That sweet, pure vanilla base! And what’s this? Fudge-covered waffle cone pieces! A caramel swirl! Heaven in my mouth!

What more, after I stop my momentary gasp of exclamation, I go on to discover that, through the Stephen Colbert Americone Dream fund, proceeds from each sale are distributed to national charities.

My God, it was the best of all worlds.

I went on to finish that container, smiling the whole while. The next week or so, I bought another one and did the same. I was hooked. When I was sucking down a spoonful, I hadn’t a care in the world! Americone Dream was my drug, and you can be damned sure I was getting in my fix.

Then a sad thing happened. I went into the store, headed straight for the frozen foods, reached for the door… and saw, much to my dismay, that the slot officially reserved for Americone Dream had another flavor in it.

Infidel!

I couldn’t believe it. No more Americone Dream? Had it joined the B&J graveyard that had claimed so many worthwhile flavors (Black & Tan, Bovinity Divinity, Fossil Fuel, Orange & Cream, White Russian and so many others)? Say it ain’t so!

Alas, it looked to be the end of my joy. Americone Dream was gone, as was my taste for Ben & Jerry’s ice cream. I just couldn’t commit myself to their $3+ pints when the best flavor in the world was simply kicked to the curb like a stray puppy. Sure, I’d try a Half Baked, dip my toes into some Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough, but it wasn’t the same! I could drown my lost flavor sorrows in these staples… but all I wanted was a chocolate covered waffle cone piece….

I would walk past the freezer section, stopping midstride, and scan the shelves. Week after week, month after month–nothing.

Then, one day, I saw it. A column of Americone Dream! OMG!!!!111

But, I didn’t buy it. The pint was $4.59. $4.59! Seriously? How the Hell could I pay that much for ice cream? Sure, it’s the best ice cream to ever be made, but I can’t justify that! I walked away. I didn’t buy it.

The next week, it was gone. And so went my life. Americone Dream-less. I would never taste it again.

Except, of course, that’s not true. In fact, I’m spooning the last of a pint into my mouth as I type this sentence. Oh, how delicious.

It happened like this. An hour after a grocery trip saw me once again staring at an infuriating freezer, my absolutely wonderful fiance (see how that came back around?) began reading through Ben & Jerry’s cemetery.

“I don’t see Americone Dream,” she said.

“What?” I asked.

I yanked the computer from her and typed “Americone Dream” into the site’s search bar. Five entries down, a title stuck out: Flavor Locator. I clicked the link. A new window came up, with a drop-down menu asking me to “Choose a Product.” I scrolled to A… only to see there were no A’s. What the Hell. I go back to the previous page and notice… “Stephen Colbert’s Americone Dream.” It starts with an S!

JOY!

I go back, I drop-down, I click, I type my zip code like there’s no tomorrow and I press FIND IT.

And I wait.

And I wait.

“Load!”

Six places around me have it!

“We have to go now.”

And we went. And there it was. And on sale! Two for the price of one. I didn’t care, just grabbing a random second flavor (Cookie Dough) as I pulled out my debit card (I only had $1 in cash at the time) and got the Hell out of there.

Within seven minutes, I was spooning me some Americone Dream. And all was right with the world.