By Joan Passarelli

Blue Jeans & Jelly Beans

When I was a kid, we’d get together with our extended family every Christmas, Easter, and Thanksgiving for a feast. Whoever was the host would roast the appropriate meat, and everyone else would contribute traditional side dishes.

My grandpa had his contribution staked out. He always brought the ice cream. He’d stop at Baskin-Robbins, judiciously choose the right flavor to complement the meal, and have them hand-pack a couple of quarts.

(My fondness for the color combination of brown and pink must date from the “31 Flavors” logo. To this day it makes me think of something sweet and delicious.) We grandchildren would watch in awe as Grandpa produced the ice cream from its paper sack. We’d play with the chunk of dry ice that came with it, poking it about on the ground with a stick until it disappeared.

My favorite flavor back then was Pecan Praline, because Grandpa had helped me look up “praline” in the dictionary. We found out that “Praline” was a proper name, not of the chef who had created it, but of the French nobleman who had employed him. It was my first lesson in class privilege.

When I was older, I helped make ice cream when I was at Camp Fire Girl summer camp. All of us in the Magic Forest unit took turns cranking until our arms got sore, and sat on the machine to steady it until our jeans got soaked through. But all our aches and cold disappeared when we tasted the ice cream. Flavored with chunks of fresh peach, tasting of summer sun, it was a perfect reward for all that work.

As an adult, I’ve traded my pleasures. Ben & Jerry’s low-fat frozen yogurt is just fine with me, especially the Cherry Garcia flavor. We have an electric ice-cream maker at our house, but I like to make sorbet with it. Until the other day, I thought I was done with “real” ice cream.

Then I took my daughter’s Brownie troop on a field trip to the Dreyer’s Grand Ice Cream factory. Watching all those brown-and-white cartons scooting along the assembly line, their eyes grew round and their mouths opened in wonder. Our tour guide Jesse told us about the expert taste-tester who sampled ice cream from a golden spoon, and the fresh milk, fruits and flavors that went into it.

Then we waited on benches while Jesse went in and grabbed us a freshly filled carton off the line. It was Chocolate-Vanilla flavor (Neapolitan without the strawberry). He handed us each a spoon and told us to dig in. The girls were in ecstasy, the soft, airy ice cream the consistency of whipped cream melting in their mouths.

After a trip into the multi-acre freezer, holding a million gallons of ice cream, we were shivering and ready to come into the tour group room. It was decorated like an ice cream store, right down to the real freezer with real ice cream. Jesse served everyone two scoops and we settled down to enjoy.

I had planned not to have any. I don’t need ice cream, I thought. Calories, sugar, fat. I don’t want that, and I’m too old for it anyhow.

But after that tour, I had to try some. I sampled two flavors from their super-premium (read: heavy on the butterfat!) line: one with chocolate truffles, one with caramel.

Rich flavor exploded on my tongue. The buttery sweetness went “mmm” all the way down. It was so good that I couldn’t stop until it was all gone.

As I licked my spoon the last time, I realized I’ll never be too old for ice cream.

Passarelli is the mother of three and may have to make some real ice cream this summer.Her column runs the fourth week of the month.