Neopolitan Ice Cream

Ice cream was something our family rarely had. Only in the summer, and only when it was hot. Really hot. The idea that people ate it in the winter was beyond my childhood ken.

Dad was the holder of the purse and did all the grocery shopping. If he decided it was hot enough, he would drive his truck from the farm to the A&P and bring home a half gallon of Neopolitan. 

Three divine colors divided the rectangular block into vanilla, strawberry, and chocolate stripes. It wasn’t until years later that I discovered a carton could hold a single flavor. 

With great drama, Dad laid the container on a cutting board on the dining room table. He would peel back the paper covering and expose the tantalizing frozen chunk. Like a maestro conducting an orchestra, he raised his butcher knife and divided the vision into equal swaths of deliciousness before placing each one on china dishes.

Each family member received a parcel, and almost prayer-like, we dug our spoons into the creamy treat. Pacing myself was tricky. If I ate too fast, my mouth turned numb and I got an instant headache. Too slowly, and the treat melted. While it still tasted okay, it wasn’t quite as good as partly frozen bites.

I still love ice cream, mostly vanilla or black raspberry. None ever tastes as good as it did when I was a kid eating slices of color.