When I was a kid, I had an obsessive love and attraction to ice cream. I'm told one of my first words was, "aye-shwe" which my parents thought was me attempting to say love-water in Mandarin. They would bring me water, and I would slap it away furious they couldn't decode my words. They'd try with food, with toys, anything they could think of, and I would swat it away again and again, all whilst anxiously screaming out "aye-shwe!" It would be a few days before they figured out I meant ICE CREAM, as I clapped my hands and screamed, "aye-shwe! aye shwe!" as they fed me some.
Some of my best memories come from ice cream. Ice cream was almost always a happy time for me. The sweet taste of cold dairy and sugar coupled with the toasty aroma of waffle cones was just so heavenly. On top of that, ice cream was so lovely and pleasant to the eye! I can still spend hours pouring over different combinations of sprinkles. The perfect spirals and dreamy dollups pull at my heart strings. The chocolate dipped and then covered with sprinkles waffle bowls or cones make my knees weak with delight.
I loved the pink and brown polka dots from the 31 Baskin Robbins ice cream store, but I was consumed by the pink spoons and everything they embodied - which for me was the reminder of happy moments we had our ice cream trips with me as the only child. I liked the pink spoons so much that a college boyfriend would attach twelve of them to floral wiring and stems for an anniversary present, one I would cherish the sweetness and look at it, and get happy with anticipation. Even now, as a grown adult, whenever I see a pink Baskin Robbins spoon, I still get butterflies in my stomach. The anticipation. The giddiness. The excitement. The pure joy.
As a child, we also frequented Thrifty ice cream about once a week when we went to the laundromat. The weekend ritual would begin with loading our clothes into an empty washer, followed by my mom or dad walking me over to grab a Thrifty ice cream cone. I was pretty basic as a kid, it was pretty much rainbow sherbet, because the flavor wasn't bad but really I liked to stare aimlessly at the swirl of colors, wondering what additional color I'd find with another lick. My favorite licks were the purple and pinks, but a lot of times, pink would emerge as the leader. I savored the delicious joy every week as I waited patiently for my parents to finish their laundry. I loved this little tradition.
The only time ice cream didn't make me happy was when it became a teaching moment from my mom about how to be more filial. I liked ice cream, but I also liked all things Disney, so when I saw the cute vanilla and chocolate Mickey Mouse ice cream bars that they sold at Disneyland in the local grocery store, I was ecstatic and begged my mom to get some. She agreed, and I was the luckiest girl ever. Or so I thought. When we went home, I asked my mom if I could have a Mickey Mouse ice cream bar, and she said yes. I opened up my bar, so amped up, carefully pulling apart the plastic wrap so that it wouldn't impact my precious Mickey Mouse bar. Before I could eat it, my mom asked me for a bite. "No, get your own," I responded like only a six year old could. I mean, in my defense, the box came with more than one bar. Without any warning, my mom swiped the bar from me, and ate it. I SCREAMED in agony. As I did, she continued to eat it, telling me that I deserved what I was getting and that I needed to be more filial and loving and supportive of my mother. I yelled. I hit the wood floors and pounded with my fiery fists on the floor, all while she kept eating MY MICKEY MOUSE ICE CREAM BAR! She continued to repeat herself, that I should have just given her a bite, that I should have thought of her first. What kind of a daughter was I? Didn't I know how to be a good Chinese daughter? Obedient and filial, and always thinking of my mother, who by the way, bought me this bar! Ungrateful little spoiled American child. She threw away the rest of the box. At least that's what my memory tells me.
From that day on, my mom always got offered a bite of whatever I was having, and if I failed to ask first and she wanted a bite, she would get a bite.
I tell my kids this story often. They gasp at what a monster po po was, and then they tell me that I should have given her a bite first. I remind them now that they must always offer me a bite, but then reassure them that I would never eat ALL of something the way their po po had. They nod in unison and praise for their wonderful mother.
When I tell my mom about this, she recalls that Mickey Mouse bar. "It was so disgusting, I was so upset that I had to eat it all to teach you. Oh the sacrificing a mom makes to teach her kids how to being the best."
Ugh.
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