“Goddammit. I wish I had some maple walnut ice cream.”
I, being seven, just looked at my pregnant mama’s belly and wished I could give her some maple walnut ice cream. Our rural home meant no corner store convenience and I knew we would both have to do without.
“Hey, I have an idea,” I said, thinking myself quite ingenious for remembering we’d called dad home when mom had false labor a couple of weeks before. “Let’s phone dad at work and ask him to get some on the way home.”
“Dad won’t be home until we’re fast asleep. I don’t really need any ice cream. We’ll just make do,” Mom said.
She put her feet up on the green chenille foot stool that matched the arm-chair and closed her eyes. As the oldest, I got to stay up later and I felt quite important knowing mom was resting and I was the one looking after things with my younger sister already fast asleep in her room upstairs.
Our kitchen was green. Green walls, green cupboards and a black and white checkered floor that always made me want to play hopscotch. The fridge stood next to the stove, both white and shiny. I had to stand on tiptoe to reach the freezer compartment of the fridge but I managed to wrangle the ice cream carton out from between the frozen chicken legs and ground beef.
I grabbed the maple syrup out of the cupboard near the stove. Grampy brought us maple syrup every year from the trees in Ontario and it was a treat we doled out sparingly so I knew not to use a lot of it.
Scooping some vanilla ice cream into two pink plastic bowls, I wondered if we had any walnuts. I put what was left of the brick of ice cream back in the freezer and opened Mom’s baking cupboard but all I could see was a handful of raisins in a mason jar. I poured a bit of the maple syrup over the ice cream and sprinkled the raisins over that.
When I took the bowls into the living room, Mom opened her eyes and said, “I wondered what you were getting up to out there.”
“Well, I was trying to make you some maple walnut ice cream but I know it’s not the real thing,” I said, digging into the gooey, golden sundae.
“No, this is even better,” Mom said, flashing that killer smile I was yet unaware I would inherit so exactly: “Nobody can buy a bowl of love like this at the grocery store.”
For Sarah, her prompt was: Maple syrup, enjoy, Sarah, now I want some pancakes, dammit, lol