I first learned that the world could be a wondrous place filled with magical delights when, as a little girl in Brooklyn, I walked up to a Good Humor truck. There, for sale, was a stick of ice cream that had an entire chocolate bar inside of it. Chocolate candy. Inside ice cream. Are. You. Kidding. Me. Good Humor introduced me to joy and awe.
When I got a little older, my sense of well-being and abundance came from the Banana Barge. My father would take my sister and me to Carvel every Sunday and let each of us order the largest thing offered—three towers of ice cream, bananas and chopped peanuts—that we didn’t have to share! The Banana Barge let us know that even though our parents no longer lived together, we were still two of the luckiest little girls in the world. In the backseat of the car with our gigantic ships of melty, messy soft-serve heaven, Carvel was boundless fatherly love.
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But then, innocence must be lost. In the ’80s, as a student at NYU, I got a job in an ice cream shop. It was in the West Village, on Christopher Street. I worked in the back of this tiny storefront, where there was an ice cream machine and crates of ice cream mix (we were very proud of our high butterfat content then), and I would put on my kitchen whites and get down to business.