Blaagen-Dazs

Do you remember the old Tastee-Freez soft serve ice cream stands? That was long before Baskin-Robbins or Dairy Queen. If you saw one, you saw them all. The buildings all looked the same.

I can remember each year when we took our first trip of the summer to one. It was excrutiating anticipation as my mother would go down the list of options. We had ice cream at home, but this new kind, so soft and creamy, well, it was utter delight.




This is one of the old signs you would see in the window. Check out the price. 29 cents for a sundae. But that was out of my parents' price range. We got cones and once a month got to have them dipped. It was madness on those days.

And at season's end we would all be treated to the supreme dessert, a banana split. I thought I had died and gone to heaven.

These days I find my tastes running toward the other end of the spectrum however. Soft serve is 'OK' but I prefer real ice cream. At my age you really don't have to settle for less than perfect. Time is running out so let me have the real deal!

And none of that frozen dream stuff in the sorbet range either. If I want fruit, I'll eat an apple.

Oh, and puh-leeeeeze spare me the meringue igloos with hidden ice cream. Who has time to bake them and then stuff them like a turkey anyway?

I want chocolate!!! Rich, creamy, dark CHOCOLATE!!! Now aren't these two fine specimens?

But still they aren't complete enough. And don't tell me that putting ice cream between two cookies is as good as it gets. The following example of Martha Stewart's kitchenry is NOT in my vocabulary. I have pricked things with a fork before baking them and have never had the lines come out as uniform as those seen here. As if anyone has time to be that anal! No, I can skip these altogether, thank you very much, Martha. But perhaps your most intimate friends may enjoy them.

I have two rules about ice cream. One... It HAS to be chocolate. There really is no other flavor. Two... If you can pick it up, it's a waste of time and energy. No ice cream on a stick or in a cone for me.

I not only demand chocolate, I want Death by Chocolate. I want the kind of chocolate fix that a mere picture of the dessert will send a diabetic into a coma. I want the ooey-gooey, fudge-dripping-off-it, smothered in caramel, with marshmallows, nuts and whipped cream model. I want the it's-so-sweet-that-it-makes-your-teeth-itch kind of dessert.

And if you must have an ice cream sandwich, be like this guy. I don't know him, but he sure knows a dessert when he sees one.

And oh my God... please either fill the plate or put it on a smaller one so people don't think they are getting cheated. This is not a time for the less-is-more attitude. And what in the world is that single blackberry doing there anyway? Is it the spokes-berry?

Now this comes close to what I'm talking about except there is still way too much white going on. the one scoop of chocolate is being strangled by all that vanilla, but at least this dessert has some substance.

This is more like it, but again, what's with all the vanilla?

I searched HUNDREDS of photos for this blog. Do you think I could find a decent collection of chocolate desserts with chocolate ice cream? Noooooooo!!!! But this was the best one. My only suggestion would be more hot fudge and double it, please. Oh yeah, and where are the nuts?

Well, I guess that's enough Blaagen-Dazs for one day. At least you know where I stand on the chocolate issue in case it even comes close to being voted off American Idol or finds its way into politics and is in danger of introducing a non-chocolate amendment to the Constitution.

In the meantime I will go dream in chocolate. Don't look at me like that! I'm not the only one! Milk, coffee and strawberries all long for chocolate too. So don't make me out to be the bad guy here. Until we meet again...

Life Is Uncertain, Eat Dessert First.

The Bear and The Flea

It is the poetry that is the language of my soul when I find it hard to speak in whole sentences. Sometimes, life doesn't make sense. Poetry has a rhythm and sway to it. It's soothing, like that feeling you get when you're in a rocking chair. And so when troubles come or chaos ensues, I digress to my poetic nature to find meaning and solace. I'd like to think it's spiritual. In any event, it calms the waves and tames the fears. What more could I ask for?

The Bear and The Flea

Beside the stream stood the big brown bear

without a care, as it would seem.

He fished and swam the whole day through

and before he knew he saw a ram.

　

In pleasantries he spoke to him

but had not a whim of the ram's fleas.

Awakening from one deep nap

in the woolen nap the flea did spring.

　

The ram and bear said their goodbye

with sunset nigh and neither aware

of the relay that occurred between the two

during evening dew at the end of day.

　

And well into night the bear did stir

for beneath his fur the flea did bite.

As the darkness passed, no reasons, no rhymes,

a hundred times the flea harrassed.

　

The bear would doze and near deep sleep,

in the pain would creep distressing his repose.

At morning's light the bear did see

the ravaging flea and his camping site.

　

"What do you there in this situation

with no invitation?" asked the tired bear.

"It's my home," replied the indignant flea.

"Now can you leave me be?" he said with a moan.

　

Outraged, the bear nearly cursed,

"It was my home first, now get out of there!"

"Go back to sleep!" said the flea with vigor.

"You're so much bigger than that underfed sheep."

　

"To you I reply, I'll no longer be smitten.

Remember once bitten, twice shy?"

"You're a terrible host," said the flea in his sass.

"Not one bit of class. I'll not leave my post."

　

The bear, unswayed, began to walk,

and the flea kept the talk, as the bear felt betrayed.

Over forest path went the bear to the lake.

The flea's mistake was not forseeing the bath.

　

Lowering his head, the bear faked a drink.

Inside of a blink he jumped in instead.

He twisted and thrashed, dislodging the flea.

"I'm drowning!!!" screamed he, but still the bear splashed.

　

The last thing of note was the bear finally free.

His advice to the flea? "You're fine if you float!"

Moral of the story:
Don't go where you're not welcome.