Jeni's Frozen Dessert Sandwiches

A product about as high quality as my photo skills.

Maybe it's the holiday spirit getting into me, but these were ho ho ho hum. Now for the airing of grievances:

First off, "frozen dessert sandwiches"? Not "ice cream sandwiches"? Jeni, you done me wrong. You wouldn't serve these in your shops, so why are you pumping them out nationwide. Jeni, you are lending your luxury ice cream name to a low-end product.

Second, the options are basic. Mint chocolate, sure. But is there a mix-in or imaginative twist I have come to expect from Jeni's? Nope. As for "bramble berry," let's call it what it really is: "mixed berry." And key lime? ...Okay, that is still pretty uncommon. But theirs offers nothing new.

Third, the actual flavors are nondescript, totally lacking depth. Does the mint ice cream use actual mint? Nope; it's peppermint oil. The mixed berry is is vaguer than vague. Miscellaneous tartness. The key lime is run of the mill as far as key lime stuff goes, which is to say it's mildly sour, but primarily sweet.

Fourth, the cookies part, while good, is the dominant flavor. Why might that be? Because these are teeny tiny. The size of the product is the only part that actually resembles fancy pants food because it is downright dainty.

Fifth, how dare you.

Jeni's Frozen Dessert Sandwiches. Skip 'em.

Cafe Valley's Dr. Pepper Cake

Occasionally, as a dessert blogger, I get sent free stuff. What usually happens is I receive an email inquiring whether or not I'd like to try a product. Scratch that. What usually happens is I receive press releases that look like spam emails on topics only tangentially related to food, subject matter that tells me the people who are paid to send out these emails rarely pay any attention to where they scatter their PR seed. But sometimes--very rarely--I am offered to sample something. And when this happens, they want a review.

I've tried to keep this blog positive over the years, only reviewing things I enjoy. My mother taught me that if you don't have anything nice to say to not say anything at all. But damned if the folks at Cafe Valley don't want a review. I can think of no better reason for the ol' dessert blog to come out of dormancy, so here goes:

Cafe Valley makes grocery store cakes. You know the type. They cost $5 and sound like a deal until you taste them. Then you realize you've spent that money on the one piece you'll reticently finish, wishing the whole time that you'd cut a thinner slice. The rest of the cake will be set out for your roommates with a "Hey, I bought this to share" sign AKA a thinly veiled attempt to get rid of an unwanted thing. Most self-respecting adults only purchase a cake like this once in their lives, usually on a whim because the flavor in question is a personal favorite. Fans of Dr. Pepper: don't buy this cake. Go drink some Dr. Pepper instead. Even if you're "just curious," don't buy this cake. You can have the patience to wait until some cheap friend brings it to a pot luck, putting it on the table to be ignored by all except one self-sacrificing person who takes a piece of the grocery store cake just to be nice. Watch how the cheap friend acts as though their woeful offering earns them the right to eat at the pot luck. "Hey, I brought something!" Watch as they gorge themselves on real food when they themselves will only spend $5 and a minute in the check-out line. That cheap friend thinks they are the smartest one in the room, bringing a grocery store cake while everyone else has cooked. Don't be that cheap friend. And don't let them live the illusion that they've pulled the wool over everyone's eyes with a grocery store cake. Yes, even if it's free, don't eat this cake.

Innovations in Dessert Delivery

Recently, groups of protesters marched in streets across the nation on behalf of science. And, as many of them know, standing up for a cause must never stop at a march or a Facebook update or a post to one’s ice cream blog. We must champion scientific innovation and vote with our dollars. For that reason, I present to you a an adaptation of a Powerpoint report I did at work on the Innovations in Dessert Delivery, some of the most important scientific studies being done today in service to humanity.

• • •

Trends come and go in the world of sweets: cupcakes are not as hot as maple bacon doughnuts are not as hot as cronuts. But sometimes innovative product delivery can be just as effective for boosting sales as innovative products.

Once upon a time, someone (possibly Albert Doumar) imagined a method of eating ice cream that eliminated waste and was good for on-the-go. Over a century later, the ice cream cone is part of ice cream culture both domestically and internationally.

Here are some of the interesting trends in how dessert is delivered to the consumer. Some still involve a customer service medium:

• Made-to-order: This in-store trend has been big for a decade now, whether regional doughnut chains like Duck Donuts and Fractured Prune, a global chain like Cold Stone mixing whatever you like into the ice cream flavor of your choice or an Asian cream puff chain that focuses on natural ingredients. spreading to America, Beard Papa's.

• Serve yourself: Taking a page from those tasteful soft-serve sundae bars at buffets, frozen yogurt chains are letting customers choose how much froyo and toppings they want, combining as many flavors as they want. All the people behind the counter have to do is weigh the customer's custom sundae and collect their money...and clean up the mess that soccer team made of the birthday cake/cotton candy twist machine.

• Delivered to your home: Cookies straight to your door, for those late night, um, studying sessions. Originally founded with college campuses in mind, working adults can see the benefits of Insomnia Cookies' late-night delivery, too.

Others eliminate customer service altogether:

• Vending machine: Ice cream vending machines have been casting their glow on airport breezeways for years now, but now regional chains are entering the market. Jeni's Splendid Ice Creams now has an ice cream vending machine in the Columbus, Ohio airport and Ted Drewe's has one in the St. Louis airport.

• ATM: Just as cupcakes are a cutesy dessert that has cashed in on style-before-substance nostalgia, the Sprinkles' Cupcake ATM seems a perfect method for a not-quite-adult to delight in their empty calories while getting their dessert in a method that's like Fisher Price Talking Elmo ATM meets Easy-Bake oven, all so willing consumers can stand in line to be treated like the insipid children that they are. The ATM is even bright pink!

• Gumball machine: Playing the nostalgia card in a different way, New York's Baked by Melissa created cupcake gumball machine for events rental.

One has to wonder the next innovation to be imagined and made real by dessert scientists. What do you think it will be?

X-Rated Ben & Jerry's (NSFW)

Parody of original cow and cloud image by Woody Jackson.
(c) Woody Jackson and (c) Ben & Jerry's Homemade, Inc.

***If this post is ever referenced in a job interview, please know that it was posted without Brad's knowledge by a friend who hacked into his blog.***

Though they've never shied away from a double entendre, Ben & Jerry's took offense that an adult film company has beat them at their game. Until a court order put a stop to it, interested consumers could buy DVDs from Ben & Cherry's adorned with familiar and friendly cows-and-clouds artwork and parody titles of flavors. Most articles will mention the titles Peanut Butter D-Cups, New York Fat & Chunky, Chocolate Fudge Babes and Boston Cream Thighs. What most articles won't mention are the other titles, which I managed to find (the titles, not the films): Hairy Garcia, Americone Cream, Banana Cl*t, Coconut 7 Lay-Her Bar, Everything But the...Butt and Late Night Sn*tch.

Given that Ben & Jerry's has flavors called Karamel Sutra and Schweddy Balls, my guess is the real plan was to sue the porn company into bankruptcy so Ben & Jerry's could hire their creative head to help name new flavors. And what a fun job that would be. With this mind, my friends and I have porn-ified some of the names of existing flavors:

• Hubby's Chubby
• Chunking the Monkey
• S'mwh*res
• New York Super Fudge Spunk
• Heath's Bare Crotch
• Coconut Seven Layer Wh*re
• Jimmy Fallon's Late Night Shag
• Everything but the...Nuts!
• Boston Cream of Some Young Guy -or- Bustin' Cream Pie
• Imagine Earl's Piece
• Crotchy Crotch Crotch
• Americondom Dream -or- AmeriBone Dream
• All Ova Macadamia
• Jamaica Me Horny
• Red Vulva Cake
• Banana's Spit
• Chocolate Chip Cookie H*es
• Dublin Astroglide
• Black & Man
• Country Peach Gobbler
• From Russia with Balls
• Mission to Marcy's Pants
• CinnaMAN Buns -or- Cinnamon Buns on Fire Part 6: Extra Cream Filling

In case you need a list of the flavor names for reference, they are in order: Chubby Hubby, Chunky Monkey, S'mores, New York Super Fudge Chunk, Heath Bar Crunch, Coconut Seven Layer Bar, Jimmy Fallon's Late Night Snack, Everything But The..., Boston Cream Pie, Imagine Whirled Peace, Scotchy Scotch Scotch, Americone Dream, Aloha Macadamia, Jamaica Me Crazy (sorbet), Red Velvet Cake, Banana Split, Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough, Dublin Mudslide, Black & Tan, Country Peach Cobbler, From Russia with Buzz, Mission to Marzipan and Cinnamon Buns.

Good luck not thinking about any of this next time you're spooning a pint.

Bobtail Year 2: Cinnamon

December was month seven of Bobtail Year 2, during which I received two pints of homemade ice cream a month from Bobtail.

This month's flavor was Cinnamon. It tastes like Christmas at home and, predictably, is quite good. It also helped inspire the satirical, dessert-free blog below.

• • •

The elf on the shelf is a bunch of nonsense. Kids already get presents under the tree, junk in their stockings, daily trinkets or edibles from their advent calendars and now they have Santa's least stealthy spy watching them more closely than the NSA monitors Scott Stapp's weapons and air fare purchases online. All this consumerist culture brings to mind my first acting role in Ms. Husson's fifth grade winter program in 1994, a bizarre piece about materialism with such songs as "Yankee Doodle Santa" and "Make a Buck." ("Make a buck, make a buck! Spend! Spend! Make a buck, make a buck! Buy, buy, buy, buy!" Stop me in the street and I'll sing this on command.) It could make a person nauseous...or it could get them into the Chri$tma$ $pirit!

I've been thinking: being a feminist, I believe we need a female role model in the Christmas crap-hawking canon. A Disney princess who's also a strong woman. Someone who's good with a bow and arrow, but also isn't afraid to throw down on Master Chef to beat Mrs. Claus. Someone little girls can look up to, but whose outfit can be easily adapted into something skimpy for sexually empowered women doing holiday bar crawls. Finally, there needs to be Christmas magic because WWJD. I present to you Cindy the Cinnamon Witch of the North Pole!

A red hot win for festive fetishism feminism.

This red-haired firecracker waves her Cinnamon Stick Wand™ to transport her to third world countries to help relief efforts for the underprivileged...or to be the sassy and fashionable MC/DJ of the hippest holiday ho-ho-hoopla! Her presence is immediately known because Cindy the Cinnamon Witch™ smells like a snickerdoodle dipped in apple cider wherever she goes, appearing and disappearing in a puff of cinnamon smoke! While usually a crossbow-carrying conductor of cheer--in addition to magic, her Cinnamon Stick Wand™ is good for directing an orchestra in "Ode to Joy"--Cindy is also feisty, punishing bad kids with the cinnamon challenge...and posting video footage on YouTube! Fighting for equality all day and partying all night, it's a wonder when that celestial celebrity Cindy ever has time to go back to the North Pole to do her hair! Cindy the Cinnamon Witch of the North Pole™ will be a spicy addition to your religious and/or secular winter holiday traditions!

Bobtail Year 2: Butterfinger

L: Butter. R: Fingers. (Not pictured: Missing fingers.)

November was month six of Bobtail Year 2, during which I receive two pints of homemade ice cream a month from Bobtail.

• • •

I’m no gastro-scientist, but my understanding is that anything cooked slow and low for long enough will break down into mush. Apparently, some time between Dia de los Muertos and Thanksgiving, Bobtail decided to test this out with severed digits.

You may be worried that their new flavor, Butterfinger, is a scarlet red bloody mess, but defying expectation they created a bright, white ice cream. Now, I have no personal experience cooking or eating human flesh—Thanks, Obama!—but, even if the fingers are merely a mix-in, it is pretty dang impressive that there isn’t even the slightest pink tint to the base! How might they have accomplished such a feat?

My guess is their first step was draining the blood from the fingers. Then I think they mixed in some confectionary sugar into the blood and cooked it into a syrup. The result is a soft brown solid that is kind of waxy, but sweet. I believe the next step was cooking down the remaining skin and bones into a brownish-orange crunchy mass. Given how sweet and sticky it is, I’m thinking they used brown sugar and corn syrup to produce such a delicious product, perhaps even a touch of smooth peanut butter. Thankfully, there are no cuticles to be found; I’m willing to eat another person’s pinky, but I have my limits.

We could guess at Bobtails’ recipe for cooking fingers all day, but while these facts are veiled in mystery we at least know one other major ingredient: butter. You don’t have to be Paula Deen to realize that many foods are better smothered in the stuff. Personally, I like my carrots that way with a little brown sugar, so why not fingers? Suffice to say, this flavor's base is more buttery than your average Bobtail flavor with toothsome results.

Suppose you want to test your luck at making Butterfinger ice cream in your home kitchen? You'll be happy to learn that butter is for sale at grocers across the country. As for the fingers, your best bet is probably Mariano's. I mean, they sell python meat* so anything's possible.

*scroll to #7

How to Celebrate a Half-birthday

Who invited the birthday cake to the half-birthday party?
Oh! What a delightfully whimsical foible of human logic!

When celebrating a half-birthday, one should bake a half-birthday cake to really make the day special! But don't fall into a pit of anxiety and self-flagellation, dear reader. It's simple! To make a half-birthday cake, one may use the same recipe that one uses to make a regular birthday cake. True fact: though the celebrations they commemorate are distinctly different, half-birthday cakes and birthday cakes are actually the same thing! ("They don't look the same," you may quip. Your eyes don't fool you, my dearly steadfast fan, but I assure you that the size is the only variable!)

To properly prepare the half-birthday cake, simply follow a birthday cake recipe as you would normally. It may feel like you're making a regular birthday cake for the first few steps, but remember the only difference in the preparation is that you will make less cake, half! For example, if your annual birthday tradition is making a two layer chocolate cake, mix the chocolate cake batter, but only pour enough to bake one layer. (Here's a fun tip for those among my attractive and smart admirers who rely on boxed cake mixes: add an extra egg and then trade out the oil for butter and the water for milk. It works like a pagan luck-enhancing device!) When your single-layer cake is done baking, frost the cake--having made your secret family recipe while the cake was baking!--and then cut it in half. Stack the frosted halves and your half-birthday cake is complete!

If you did things correctly,
your half-birthday cake should
look like this from above!

As I'm sure you know, my comely and brilliant follower, it is improper half-birthday etiquette to make a whole two layer cake and simply cut it in half. (Cheaters will be stoned to death. Repeat offenders will be excommunicated.) So what to do with that extra cake mix? One could save it for the half-birthday celebration of a friend or colleague, but I prefer using the remaining batter to make cupcakes! Then, when the cupcakes are done, take four of them, break them up and baptize the crumbs in a vanilla ice cream mix to sit overnight. The next day, pour in the vanilla and chocolate cupcake ice cream mix into an electric ice cream mixer. When the ice cream is nearly done churning, pour in some refrigerated, crushed raspberries for a treat even a mannerless philistine could enjoy!

Speaking of mannerless philistines, it is an unfortunate truth that, much like writing a dessert blog, being the perfect host is often a thankless job. (You may wonder, "Who let these swines into my house?" But you must never say this aloud, my sexy and genius devotee. Those swines are your guests!) Still, this lamentable fact mustn't keep you from sharing the half-birthday cake and ice cream with the miserable friends who are privileged enough to celebrate your milestone event with you, jealous of your cause for joy! It is both customary and proper to greet all compliments with mock humility, all while pestering/subtly fishing for compliments from quiet guests until they acquiesce. (A tip for my nympho, philomathic disciples: When sending your invitations remind the recipients that half-birthdays only come once a year and social obligations are but a light yolk to bear compared to martyrdom! It isn't rude to say this in an invitation! It's your party! You can ridicule swines if you want to!)

Follow these steps, my leather-and-latex-bound, PhD-holding cult member, and you will be the perfect host for your next half-birthday celebration!

Today I ate a Stradivarius.

2012, Brad Brubaker / Crayon and pen on paper / 22 x 16 in.

In celebration of becoming a chocolate connoisseur, I treated myself to a selection of Amedei solid chocolate bars. Having already done a tasting of their single origin chocolate, trying their other bars would nearly close the gap of tasting all of the products made from what I believe to be the best chocolate in the world. My plan was to follow Chloe Roussel-Doutre's advice--chewing the chocolate into small bits in order to maximize the surface area exposed to the tongue--and to document my taste reactions. Having found inspiration in chocolate before, I thought poetry might result from this act of devotion. What I didn't reckon was that I would create a work of art.

While tasting Amedei's Chuao bar, made from much coveted beans from the Chuao plantation in Venezuela, I felt a wash over me. I felt new terrains of my tongue explored and new taste buds were discovered...or perhaps brought to life. I had a phrase enter my head so clearly which accompanied this experience: deep red grooves. My God, I was eating a Stradivarius. And I knew that for my whole life, though I only first realized it in that moment, I have wanted to be a violin.

Eating an Endangered Species

Before the scene of ravenous carnage.

The fried Twinkie. It is one of the seven wonders of carnival foods. It is the fulfillment of the great southern prophesy that anything would be good if it were deep fried. And now it is an endangered species.

It was announced today that Hostess is going out of business. I set my sights for Hamburger Mary's, a joint in my neighborhood whose dessert menu features fried Twinkies with whipped cream and raspberry sauce. I devoured the delicacy so fast that my waitress asked if I'd like to lick the plate. The exterior, crisp and textured like breadcrumbs, but sweet with chemically engineered ingredients.

After I'd eaten, I was still hungry for more. I wondered if there was anywhere I could buy a fried dodo drumstick to gnaw on.

After the slaying, I feared PETA would throw
whipped cream on my jacket in protest.

You're Welcome, President Obama

'Sup Barack-n-Roll,

During your second birthday in the White House, I joined many Americans in sending you birthday wishes. Mine included the suggestion to try Thomas Sweet in Georgetown. I know how busy it must be having a full-time job and raising a family, so I didn't expect my note to be given full attention. Having recently revisited the shop, I was shocked to see pictures of you on their wall shaking hands and posing with the staff. You DID read my note!

At first, I was a tad bothered that I wasn't sent a thank you card for sharing such valuable information, but then I remembered I never sent you a thank you note for taking on the Sisyphean task of working with a Congress so consumed by pleasing their funders that they refuse to do their job. Rather than ignorantly blaming you for having both hands tied behind your back, I would like to be the change I want to see in the world. Here is my offer to serve on your cabinet in a new position I call Secretary of Dessert Consumption. Here is my first report:

Mr. President, some time has passed since my first transmission. By now I have visited each of the most frequently mentioned top ice cream shops in Washington, D.C. I am pleased to report that I did not pull a Rumsfeld, sir. Make no misunderestimations, Thomas Sweet is indeed the best in DC.

My personal favorite is Chocolate Chip Cookie. Unlike another American-invented ice cream flavor which contains cookie dough as a mix-in, this flavor actually tastes like cookie dough, complete with a mouthful of mini-chocolate chips in each bite. But there are many flavors worth exploring. I also highly recommend the Bittersweet Chocolate, which is gelato-like in its explosive dark chocolate flavor, and Chocolate Marshmallow Oreo, which features marshmallows with the same texture as those in the process of melting in a warm cup of hot chocolate.

As the first Secretary of Dessert Consumption, I will continue dutifully serving my country by providing reliable information on the best places for ice cream and more. All of this data will be compiled in this blog, thereby creating total transparency for the public eye and bettering our great country.

BFFs!
Brad



- - -

Update for 2015: While Thomas Sweet is more of a classic ice cream shop in D.C., in recent years another great option is Ice Cream Jubilee in Navy Yard, which offers some tres chic flavors.

I think I’m in love.

Okay, that phrasing was hasty. I am in love.

Cubism or Zombie?

Picasso believed in two things: ice cream and zombies.

In all seriousness, I once went to an ice cream shop in D.C. (which shall remain nameless) that had a huge mural of Guernica, only each of the characters doomed to die in the horrible bombing were holding ice cream cones. Appalled, I remarked to my brother how completely and utterly tasteless the mural was. Loudly, I might add, which probably explains the pay-and-get-out attitude of the proprietor. Whoops.

Hey, the word "zombie" reminds of something! A creative writing curriculum I wrote for elementary schoolers called "Brains! or, Writing with Zombies" was recently published. Money from the sales go into the programs at 826, free after-school tutoring and creative writing centers in several US cities.


Note from 2012: Read some of the amazing and hilarious zombie stories written by my young students as published in 826CHI Compendium Vol. 3!

Who am I kidding?

These people are idiots. I didn't want to be on their Millennial Advisory Panel anyway...unless they changed their minds, of course. Let me know! kthx

Belgian Waffles, Ch. 2: Belgian pearl sugar

When I wasn’t drooling in chocolate shop windows or nose-deep in a waffle, I was trying to learn government secrets, specifically what makes Belgian waffles superior. I learned that their distinct flavor and texture come from using a special type of sugar, Belgian pearl sugar, notable for how it caramelizes into what is being made. I planned to spread this information like a WikiLeak when I returned stateside, but first I had some exporting to do. I was crestfallen when the sugar wasn’t available at any of the shops in the Brussels airport, including the airport grocery store. (I drowned my sorrows in a quart of blood orange juice, which I downed before I went through security. Lesson: never shotgun blood orange juice for the pain of it going down the wrong way is unmatched.)

When I returned home, my Google searches told me that Belgian pearl sugar is not easily found in America (Uff da!), but was often sold at IKEA (Var sa god!). But how would I get out to the suburbs? I began scrolling through my mental list of friends with cars who could be easily bribed with waffles that required no syrup. But then it came to me: IKEA is Swedish and I live in Andersonville, the Swedish neighborhood of Chicago. Perhaps there would be a less-than-obvious trend of Scandinavians stocking their stores with Belgian products. So I summoned Viking-like courage and barreled into the bleak Chicago winter toward Erikson’s Delicatessen.

The plump, blond proprietress of the family-owned business—open since 1925; my Swedish uncle recalls going there as a boy—eagerly waddled out from behind the counter. “We had some [Var sa god!], but it looks like we’re out. [Uff da!]” I inquired about the Swedish pearl sugar on their shelves, but she let me know that substitutions would not work, especially when making authentic Belgian waffles. It seems that despite possessing nearly identical names, Belgian pearl sugar—notable for how it caramelizes—is diametrically opposed to Swedish pearl sugar—notable for how it does not cook into what is being made. You’ve probably seen Swedish pearl sugar before; it is used for the large ornamental crystals found on Swedish cookies. (I wondered: Did the first translator to use the phrase “pearl sugar” feel ripped off when another translator chose the same phrasing? Was the second translator using the phrase despite crucial differences during chemical reactions more foolish or less foolish than Columbus when he declared America to be India?) The plump, blond proprietress told me she would get a shipment of Belgian pearl sugar later that week.

When I returned I was hungry and desperate. I had called ahead to make sure they were stocked and an impatient, bossy man answered the phone. When I asked if the shipment of Belgian pearl sugar had come in yet, he checked and let me know that they did have some pearl sugar. But he had not specified its country of origin. Didn’t he know the difference between the two pearl sugars stocked at his family’s store? He was not nearly as knowledgeable as the Swedish woman from last time. Uncertain of my waffle-y fate, I once again put on my horned hat to go pillaging in the cold.

Erikson’s was packed but thankfully they were stocked with the sugar I sought as well as its inferior cousin. Both were made by Lars' Own and to make matters more confusing the two products had nearly identical packaging. While mothers with antsy children decided on how many pounds of potato sausage, the man from the phone rang me up on the 1920s cash register. When I pulled out my plastic, the man pulled out his impatient, bossy demeanor that he had acquainted me with earlier on the phone. He successfully added “annoyed” to his list of defining adjectives. He let me know it was "cash only" in a manner that suggested the workday was his puppy and I had just kicked it.

Meek and cashless, I left to find an ATM. This short errand turned into an odyssey as every ATM I found had extortionate fees that one-by-one I rejected. Eventually, I had walked far enough north on Clark St. to reach the Jewel/Osco, where I used my debit card to get some cash. Back at Erikson’s, still sadly devoid of the plump, blond, accommodating proprietress, I held my fresh $20 in clear sight as I returned my Belgian pearl sugar to the purchase counter. Showing no appreciation for the effort I made to return with hard money, the bossy, impatient, annoyed man asked me, with disgust, if I had the cash. I looked at the $20 that I was already holding in plain view and said yes. He sure hated me for buying things from his family’s business. By the time I left, he had added a noun to go with the adjectives in his defining features: jerk.

Ice cream is a beloved thing.

A while back, I wrote that based on findings in my research "Ice cream is not punk." This was not the only disturbing discovery in my research: artists from other genres also said slanderous things about my favorite topic.

Gandhi said that we should be the chump we wish to see in the world. Finally, I have done just that. I just released a short collection of fun songs for FREE download entitled Robot Monkey Reindeer Clown. These are songs I've written for prompts and assignments, both professional and theatrical. You can hear my shout-out to ice-to-the-cream if you listen carefully (especially you, ladies) to the lyrics of "Welcome to Musical Storytime!"

Though it may not be an album full of love letters to my frozen delight, it is a point for our side. Go team.

They're Called Idiots.

Some people don't think it makes sense to eat ice cream in the winter.

Somewhere David Lynch is smiling.

I knew I was in for a long night when the opening band didn’t start until after the hour headliners usually wrap it up. My best friend’s band had scored their biggest gig yet opening for Arcade Fire. I’d never been to the venue before and being that it was too small for a group like Arcade Fire—a sort of snubbed nose gymnasium with retractable wooden stadium seating and a balcony, but too small for a basketball court—gobs of people were everywhere. Magically, though, an area seemed to clear everywhere I went, even when I was pogoing on the center floor to James’ music in the brightly lit auditorium. It was then I noticed that a singer for his now sizable back-up band, which previously had fluctuated from two to three and back again, was another friend, John Thomas. Pretty strange since they live on opposite coasts; I hadn’t even been aware that he and James stayed in touch. But there he was, contributing to every song of the set, which other than the opener was entirely new material that focused on the full band sound.

It wasn’t until the after party that I came face to face with John. We were two quiet moths in a swarm of loud partiers when John took a seat across from me and I noticed that he looked like an amalgamation of his younger selves, like a 90-pound weakling college freshman with an 8^th grade haircut. I called his name across the modest dining table, but the words must have flown out the darkened window before they could make it to his ear. My facial expressions insisted on eye contact until he confusingly responded to my persistent calls of his name. He said he wasn’t John. I got mad.

These are just early glimpses of one of my rare all-nighters. I made appearances at numerous parties crowded with people, who strangely were all younger than me. It ended serenely at the purple hour of dawn where, taking in the stillness of the moment, I stood outside a crab shack with budding feelings of new love—someone I knew from high school drama club with whom I had recently reconnected on Facebook (though admittedly she’d never crossed my mind between friending her and running into each other that night, just as she’d never crossed my mind between curtain call senior year and seeing her name in my Friend Requests). We stood on a thin strip of land between two bodies of water—specifically an isthmus, though I didn’t know this at the time—marveling that we now occupied the space between day and night: one direction showed the clear horizon changing color, while the cloud covered sky overhead only got darker until far away in the other direction, somewhere, it was still midnight.

But my Glass family ramblings haven’t just gotten me off-topic, it has missed the focus completely. Somewhere between confronting John Thomas’ doppelganger and the purple dawn I stopped in at an all-night backroad ice cream shoppe. I asked the owner what flavors he still had in stock. He named a litany of old standards, but one stood out as strange. “Douglas Fir?” “Douglas Fir.”

The Pacific Northwest is full of weird places, but they are far surpassed by the dream world. I mean, as far as dessert goes, how do you figure choosing conifer trees over deciduous?

Something Delicious This Way Comes... (Post #100!)

Seattle's Fremont Solstice Parade is my favorite festival event. During this time, the liberal neighborhood allows many unusual displays in their parade--naked bicyclists, puppets with political messages, the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence--but does not allow any written word. This means no tacky logos or lip service corporate sponsorship. Any company that wants to take part in the festivities while marketing themselves must be creative. But this is all expository to how one chocolate company introduced to me the new feminine ideal:

Topless women parading down the street covered in chocolate.

I'll say it again: Topless women parading down the street covered in chocolate. Plus there was strategic gold-dusting that's commonly used for the tips, er, tops of truffles.

And, great gobs of goo, one of them was the girl of my dreams. This girl had sold me chocolate once before at the sponsoring chocolate shop and let's just say the Jasmine Truffles weren't the only thing that caught eye. And the sugar wasn't the only thing that had my heart rate up. And the aphrodisiacs in chocolate weren't the only thing getting me excited. (Whew! Is it getting hot or is it just me?) Needless to say, seeing her walk by covered in chocolate left me hungry.

"Dude," I managed to sputter to James. "I think I've sexually peaked."

Really, what could be better? Marisa Tomei and I may have once shared intimate details about what we like for dessert, but it's not like she offered to share her sundae with me or covered herself in whipped cream. (Down boy!)

I explained the situation to James: Not too long ago I had been serviced by one of these chocolate-covered goddesses at her place of work. Having been painfully attracted to her when she was fully clothed, it seemed like a sign to have seen her in this new, toothsome way.

"I should ask that girl out."

"Go for it, man."

"I should ask that girl out tomorrow."

And so it was. The next day I wandered into the chocolate store and--BAM!--there she was looking delicious, even while fully clothed. I wandered in circles around the store pretending to be interested in chocolate. (Well, maybe not pretending...) She offered me free samples. I tried not to drool.

I waited for the other customers to give us some space, you know, so the burning passions that might erupt wouldn't make their chocolate all melty. Polite chit chat between she and I began as I browsed, continued as I made my selection...and ended as I made my purchase.

The move had not been made. What to do now? Go back through the line buying chocolate until I found the courage? No! It was time to act! I wandered back to her section of the store.

"Want some more free samples?" she asked. "Marry me now," I thought. Luckily, more sensible words came out of my mouth as I made my move. But, sadly, she said she was already seeing someone. She politely continued the conversation a bit and I was smooth in my replies, but really I had already mentally checked out. I had a bag of chocolates to eat that I no longer had any obligation to share.

The Nose Knows

Yesterday, from early evening into the late Chicago night, the corner of State and Lake was permeating the smell of melted chocolate. I searched and searched but found not the source. It shall remain a mystery.

Note from 2012: The mystery was solved, but you have to read the comments to this post...

Ep.4: McDisappointed

After Utah, we trekked down to the Grand Canyon and finally resumed driving east.
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In Albuquerque, my dad and I spotted a Circle K, which being Virginians we're not accustomed to seeing. Our first response was to wonder if "strange things were afoot." Curious, we stopped in and my dad remarked that we might find a frozen dessert there. Nothing tickled our fancy, so we left...and then we saw it: The Golden Arches.

I admit it: I love McDonald's caramel sundaes. Its simplicity isn't accomplished anywhere else. Hot caramel on the bottom, vanilla softserve in the middle, hot caramel and nuts on top. Snuggling up with one in my warm winter jacket seemed the perfect ending to our long, cold day of driving in pouring snow.

"Yeah," I moped, "but the past few times I've asked, the McDonald's I was at didn't have caramel, just hot fudge." (I've always liked caramel more than hot fudge. In fact, for a time I never didn't even like hot fudge, preferring chocolate sauce. This made me the black sheep at family birthday parties growing up.) Dad thought we'd have better luck in New Mexico thanks to the large Mexican population and given that caramel--dulce de leche, actually-- is a popular flavor in Mexico. Triunfa!

If high hopes were sundaes , my life would be a ziggy-piggy buffet, but unfortunately this time they same crashing down into little pieces, not unlike chopped nuts. No caramel sundae!

McDonald'ses around the world, I'm begging you: Bring back my simple pleasure! Bring back the caramel sundae!