No waffling. The scoop on fake ice cream

I scream. You scream. We all scream for ice cream!

“Hey kid. You don’t want that,” I say standing in front of the ice cream truck that ventured into our neighborhood last week. The kid looks at me as if I was strange.

“I’m serious. A drumstick is nothing but bulked up vegetable fats, structure agents and a pharmaceutical surfactant that disrupts the gut barrier. You don’t want that.”

More strange looks.

“Here. Let me show you.” I grab the drumstick out of his hand. 

“Watch this.” I hold it up high in the air. I want to make sure it’s in full sun. 

“See. Watch this. It won’t even melt. It’s not even real ice cream. You shouldn’t be eating this. Why are you crying? Hey, come back. I’m only trying to look out for your health.”

“Hey mister. Why don’t you get out of here and stop bothering the kids.”

“Hey ice cream man. Why don’t you stop selling this junk to the kids and switch to something healthy like broccoli.” 

“Hey mom,” I say about 30 seconds later as she walks up with her youngster. His tears make lines down his cheeks where the dust from playing in the neighborhood has washed off. He is still snorting back snot and slightly catching up his overworked lungs. 

“I’m glad you’re here. I was just telling your son …” She has a purse. It’s heavy. Brick heavy from the feel of it as it collides with my face.

“No ma’am. I’ll never mess with your son again. No ma’am. I don’t want to go to jail. Yes ma’am. I’ll go back in my house and you’ll never see me again. Uh … yes ma’am. I’ll move to another neighborhood. Yes ma’am. I’ll shop around for another planet.”

Ice cream. I remember as a child it was the highlight of family gatherings. The meal was done. Everybody was sitting around like a fat cat when an adult – the hero of the day – would call out: “Who wants ice cream?”

Us kids would get as excited as a subscriber receiving their latest copy of The Houston Home Journal. The thrill would be dulled after cranking the handle for seemingly forever (thank God when they got an electric one), but the reward: Heaven!

Even I could grasp the simplicity: Whole milk, heavy cream, milk and sugar.

Now days …

“Ma’am. You really don’t want that,” I say at the supermarket (clearly not learning my lesson). “Look at the ingredients. Water. Sugar. Palm oil. Liquid glucose. Vegetable proteins. Stabilizers. Emulsifiers. Artificial vanilla flavoring. Synthetic colors.

“Here watch this. My ‘Safe Choice’ app.” I scan the product while she watches. I can’t help but notice her move her purse in the ready position. 

“See. A PFA risk of 18 contaminants. That equates to how many synthetic chemicals it probably has in it. Look at this.” 

I turn the phone so she can see the app. “See. ‘No real dairy’. There’s a reason they’re labeled ‘frozen desserts’ and not ice cream.”

“What about those,” she says, pointing at the expensive ones, while also nudging me back a step; into the glass and closer to the threat of her pushing me in the freezer should she so choose.

“I’m glad you asked,” I say. “Yes, they are ‘real’ ice cream. But look. They’re at least two dollars more than the others. Company sleight of hand. They make out like they’re giving you a choice, but what family with kids can afford these prices on a regular basis? They know which ones you’re going to choose, and they don’t care if they’re not safe for you or your kids.” 

“I ought to hit them with my purse,” she says.

“Indeed, you should,” I say triumphantly.

“I scream. You scream. These days, we all scream FROM ice cream.”