I scream... You scream...

It’s been a few weeks, a rough few weeks. I have been feeling depressed and having to work on changing my negative self-talk. And now to top if off, I am fighting a cold, and I have a sore throat. And I want ice cream. You betcha. I scream, you scream, I always scream for ice cream – it is one of my binge foods. I am sure there are reasons that this is a comfort food for me. Let’s see.

My father didn’t do much with us when I was a child, but he did join us when we went out for dinner as a family, which I think we did quite often. We always had to go to a restaurant that had cheeseburgers on the menu, because my brother, who is three years younger than me, would only, ever have a cheeseburger, whether we were in a restaurant that served Italian, Chinese, or… I can’t think of what other kind of restaurant there was in Halifax in the 60’s and 70’s. Of course he now has the most diverse diet of anyone I know. And I mean the what-food-you-intake kind of diet, not the “Oh, my God, I have to lose weight!” kind of diet. He has been an on-and-off-again vegetarian for years and eats foods from every culture now (far more variety in Montreal now, than in Halifax then). I always relate this to parents when they feel like their child will only, ever eat grilled cheese sandwiches, plain pasta, or, well, cheeseburgers. Kids, like my brother, DO grow up with respect to food. They just don’t do it on their parents’ schedule.

When our family went to a restaurant I would always get an ice cream sundae, in one of those little footed glass bowls – vanilla ice cream, chocolate syrup, and whip cream, but no cherry on top. When we went for swimming lessons, every Sunday, at the Community College where my mother worked, we would always stop at Dairy Queen on the way home. I would always have a peanut buster parfait – made with chocolate sauce though, not hot-fudge (I didn’t like the ice cream melting so quickly, or how the hot-fudge sauce thickened as it cooled). Whenever I came home from university, my Dad would pick me up at the train station, and we always stopped at the ice cream shop for a huge chocolate sundae before heading home. I’m seeing a trend here.

When I was growing up we had a “housekeeper” we called Chad (a nickname, shortened from her last name). I’m not sure why my parents called her “the housekeeper” when she was clearly supposed to be a nanny, or a care-giver as they are called today. Maybe they felt we would sound too rich, or British, if we had a “nanny.” My mother worked full-time as a teacher, volunteered at the church, grew vegetables in the garden, sewed her own clothes, and much of mine, knitted our mittens, red seven mystery novels a week, and was always taking university courses, out of interest, or to upgrade her teachers’ license. She, if anyone, needed to hire a nanny!

And yet it seemed like Chad felt the priority for her job was, not to care for the children, but to "keep" the house: make the beds, clean the floors, hang out the laundry (we use clotheslines in the Maritimes), bring in the laundry (before the fog rolls in, another Maritime issue), and get dinner started on the stove - all before my mother got home. Chad only stopped long enough for a “cuppa” in the afternoon (tea, that it) – she was very Scottish, from “the old country.” Maybe she was the one that felt it would sound too highfalutin’ to say she was a “nanny”.

I never had my tonsils out. But I wanted to get them taken out. Because I always heard about the fact that after the surgery your throat is so sore that they actually give you ice cream in the hospital! Maybe it’s not so surprising that now, when I have a sore throat, as an adult (well, almost an adult), I associate being loved, cared for, and waited on, with ice cream. The one thing that I want, that feels good to my throat, and makes me feel safe and cared for, is a bowl of ice cream … or two bowls… or three bowls – preferably with chocolate sauce, whip cream optional.

When I think back and picture myself staying home from school when I was sick, I am lying on the couch, with only the television to keep me company. Not really alone, exactly. We had an antique hand bell, and if I needed something I was to ring that bell. I told this to a friend of mine when I was in university and she told me how her mother would make up a special tray, so she could have breakfast in bed – or lunch. She would fluff her pillows and tuck her in. Then they would read together or play games – and she felt very loved and cared for. Her mom was a stay-at-home-Mom, and, as luck would have it, also a nurse.

Years later when I talked to my mother about this, she couldn’t remember me ever being sick and staying home from school, and was sure that if I had, it could only have been a few times. But of course she may not remember because she didn’t have to stay home herself… because she had a housekeeper. And of course my father was “around” – caught up in his own stuff, not attending to me or anyone else – but somewhere in the building. It was very upsetting for my mom to learn, years later, that I did not feel cared for in my own home, especially when I was sick. She sure did not care if the beds were made, or the floors swept. Taking care of my brother and I was supposed to be the priority. So, surprise, surprise, when I am sick, I desperately want to be taken care of. And if I take care of myself, I do it with ice cream. And then I beat myself up.

When my brother and his family were here for the weekend, my sister-in-law bought a box of ice cream cones. I had never before purchased ice cream cones and brought them into my home! I'm not sure why not. But we have been eating them ever since. They are, as Martha would say, a “good thing.” They are fun. And the kids love them – all the kids in the neighbourhood. Although my kids often use a spoon to scoop out the ice cream and throw away the cone itself. I know, it makes me shake my head too. But, “Whatever!” as my saucy seven-year-old son would say!

It feels like normal and natural eating to sit on the steps and lick an ice cream cone. It feels like summer. And I feel like a kid again, actually enjoying ice cream. I discovered that when you put a scoop of ice cream on a cone, and lick it – not so fast that you get brain-freeze, but not so slow that it will start dripping – you can really savour the flavour, enjoy the texture, feel the coldness, and be satisfied. With one scoop! Which is, according to Canada’s Food Guide, a “serving” of ice cream – about the size of a tennis ball. Just the right size to sit on top of an ice cream cone – regular or sugar cone?