You’ve got ice cream on your beard!

I'm taking a break from poetry this week and trying to have a little fiction fun, so here goes.

I’m not one for making homemade ice creams – I simply didn’t find the need; they’re easier bought, not to mention yummier.

Until I had a tiny tot walking around the house asking if I knew how to make ice cream. “Of course,” I said, which meant I had a vague idea. The little devil didn’t stop there, but insisted that he didn’t think I could. Little bundles can pose big challenges with their innocent (don’t trust that one minute) look and matter-of-fact one liners. “Of course you can’t,” he said dryly and left playing in the yard.

I didn’t have an ice cream maker (like I said, I didn’t find the need but I do have a lot of ceramic cookware I've bought piece-meal after reading too many reviews). I found one recipe on the Internet which seemed to be the easiest one. The ingredients were right in my pantry. So I gathered everything (around 4-5 ingredients). It involved whipping a heavy cream in a bowl until it formed stiff peaks. (I could not find a mixing bowl so I used a stock pot from my nonstick cookware set.) Then I mixed a half cup of peanut butter and condensed milk in a bowl, folded the mixture into the cream, added some chocolate chips my wife uses for baking desserts, and placed the mixture in the freezer.

I spent most of the day writing afterwards. There was a nanny watching the kiddo so I was left to my quiet and peace. Soon, I have forgotten about the ice cream and everyone else when he walked by and said that it was so hot and wished that someone knew how to make ice cream. We lived quite a distance from the nearest grocer and it needed someone to make a business of driving out to buy anything. I laughed and told him that I made myself an ice cream while he was away. “No, you didn’t,” he insisted.

I went to the fridge and scooped ice cream, sliced one ripe banana, arranged everything on an ice cream plate, garnished with corn cereals, and criss-crossed with chocolate syrup on top. It looked professional. I sat and placed my feet on the Ottoman and started with my banana split with homemade chocolatey peanut butter ice cream. I didn’t mind him but I knew his eyes went big. I heard him gasp but was mostly speechless (for a change). In short, I went for another trip to the fridge, with the young fellow at my elbow. He followed my every move, almost meekly (which he wasn’t, I’m sure). He happily squirted the chocolate syrup on his banana split. We then gaily went to the patio and enjoyed our frozen treat.

The ice cream did turn out great, it was smooth and soft. But it was too sweet for me; not for the other person, though. He went back for more, without the banana. After demolishing everything, obviously a satisfied customer, he sat beside me and said that the ice cream was so good. That was a big compliment considering his earlier snooty stance. He was suddenly friendly; even wiped some ice cream off my beard. But then he had to return to his old mien; I say that it must be his default setting. “The ice cream was so good you couldn’t have made it yourself,” he said and left. Huh?!