Never in my 18 long years of life could I have possibly fathomed that my greatest love-hate relationship would be with the creamy cold dessert delight that lies in the Sweets section of the Deece. Forget Byzantine essay prompts assigned by banal professors, midnight showers that chill your bones and waking up to the constant caterwaul of false fire alarms: nothing taunts me more than the Herculean task of foraging my Deece Ice Cream (or Deece Cream, for short) from the tubs it inhabits. And yet, Deece Cream is simultaneously my constant companion—the Kevin Hart to my The Rock, the Snoop Dogg to my Martha Stewart.
From the instant I enter the Deece, only one gastronomic pleasure consumes my mind: Deece Cream. I am cognizant that a sweet treat at the end of my day lies in those intimidating brown vats. And thus, on the prowl, I approach the dessert that tantalizes me, when, much to my chagrin, I discover an inordinate line. Though dejection pounces upon me, with inner valor and willpower, I regain my vision of Deece Cream and eagerly join the line. Surprisingly, the wait ends up being de minimis and within two shakes of a lamb’s tail, I arrive at the tubs. Upon arriving, I begin to fold under the pressure of my position: line conqueror, ice cream scooper, patron of the Deece. How am I expected to perform when there are swaths of impatient Deece Cream enthusiasts just waiting for me to finish? I begin to scoop.
The Deece Cream bullies me, twists my arm, dares me to bear no fruits from my labors. Excavating the sacred dessert, I dig harder. The spoon jabs back at me; ice cream splashes within the tub. The thoughts of the Deece Cream enthusiasts swarm me like bees. “When will she finish?” Sting. “God, she’s taking forever.” Sting. “Does she even know how to scoop ice cream? You would think it’s a relatively common-sense skill.” Sting. Due to the exterior social pressure, I accelerate my scooping, relinquishing my opportunity to dabble in different flavors. By the end of my wrestle, I had managed to obtain three miniature scoops. My scoops are just Pluto, a dwarf planet, when I wanted the whole world. But what am I to do? I am left powerless by the sweet treat I so ardently wanted to devour.
I transport my Deece Cream back to my seat. I must take pride in my dessert, regardless of its size. As soon as the Deece Cream hits my mouth, I am reminded why I went through all of the toil. Sweet, luscious, succulent ice cream sedates my mouth. Pillowing and then cooling my tongue, the ice cream melts and leaves behind but a trace of the delicious harmony that once reigned. I feel connected to the cow, the farm, the truck and even the Deece freezer that supplied this delicious delight for my enjoyment. My experience is most similar to that of Remy the rat from “Ratatouille” when he unveils the joys of blending foods through one hunk of cheese and a strawberry. Just like Remy, I encounter internal fireworks—infernos even—of appreciation for a multi-dimensional gastronomic experience.
Oh Deece! Deece was truly and irrevocably delicious. I am nourished and content. But was it worth the cost? The harrowing scooping feels like my interminable fate. The question I pose, I cannot answer. That is why my love-hate relationship with Deece Cream only accumulates with time. I am mentally yanked in many directions, but regardless, I will probably be seen tomorrow in the Sweets section of the Deece, relishing in the creamy cold dessert delight known as Deece Cream.