M is what some might (affectionately) call a “food nazi.” A few years ago, he discovered Crossfit, which led to the paleo diet, which led to us never eating cereal again…and, ok, to feeling fantastic, if I’m being honest.
But occasionally (ummmm, all the time) I will ply him him my feminine wiles and score myself a date ending in JP Licks, that heaven of refined sugar and hipster scoop-wielders.
We always have to order a pint. Of course. It’s a dollar more than a regular cup, twice as much ice cream, and it’s just the fiscally responsible thing to do. (And you know how he feels about fiscal responsibility. He thinks it’s sexy.)
But we do not eat twice as much ice cream…oh no. M asks to try all the new flavors, and hoards the tiny sample spoons. “Baby spoons,” he calls them.
We walk back through the Yard, digging up infant-sized chunks of frozen sugar with these ridiculous shards of plastic the size of my thumb, and it just feels hilarious, feels good in a way that’s so out of proportion to what we’re actually doing. I just love these random sparks of delight in him at odd things no one else would notice. ..how he imbues ordinary trips to the ice cream shop with rituals only for us. No one else would know to save their sample spoon and look askance at the giant scooping utensils set out for the others.
We keep them, too, past when we’re over dessert for the night. The baby spoons just huddle together in the freezer, lying on the pint’s lid for when someone decides that making it to four in the afternoon = ice cream reward.
It gets kind of silly, a little messy down at the end, when your knuckles are brushing against the inside of the carton, trying to retrieve the last peanut butter chip with this stub of a spoon. I don’t care. I just lick the sugar off the back of my fingers and pass my baby spoon to my baby.
I don’t think I could love you any more.