Slip and slides were shoved to the side, basketballs were dropped to the asphalt and sprinklers were left carelessly unattended as the wail of the Good Humor truck, toting ice cream sandwiches, popsicles, and dixie cups, turned the corner onto the street where my friends and I spent hours amusing ourselves. The thrill of making it to the idled truck before our mothers could scold us for spoiling our dinners outlasted the sweet pleasure of the ice cream which was inhaled instantly to combat the sticky heat. Those were the days of unadulterated joy, before lactose intolerance reared its nasty head. Soon after I realized that thick and creamy Turkey Hill ice cream would be an infrequent indulgence, I had my first taste of gelato at Capogiro in Philadelphia, recently named the world’s best ice cream parlor. The experience was nothing short of revelatory. I couldn’t go back to regular ice cream after that – my stomach reacted well to less cream and my…
As a kid there was little I awaited with as much anticipation as the daily passage of the ice cream man during the summer. The mysterious yet familiar music-box melody that bellowed from his rooftop speaker was identifiable from afar and signaled snacktime.
