CLARENCE: Sir, a lot of people on earth are asking for help for a man named Brian Parker.

GOD: What seems to be the problem?

CLARENCE: Ice cream. He eats such an awful lot.

GOD: Oh yes, I remember. Baskin Robbins was near the end of his paper route. Almost every day, he rewarded himself with a banana split.


CLARENCE: Well sir, he’s all grown up, now, and it’s getting worse. He’s discovered gelato. (hands God a sheaf of papers.) I have his history, here.


GOD: Oh my! Six bowls in one day!


CLARENCE: I’m afraid Brian is throwing away your most precious gift: his life. There must be some way to help him.


GOD: It looks like I’ll need to send you to earth. Here. (hands Clarence a large, gray pill) When he’s not looking, slip this into his next bowl of ice cream.

CLARENCE: Yes, sir, I certainly will. What is it?

GOD: Lactose intolerance.

Thus began my introduction to moderation.

I've never been very good at cautious enjoyment. My true genius lies in the study of epicurean excess. But I’m beginning to realize that's a young man’s game. I'm grudgingly, with a clenched smile, making peace with my forty year-old digestive tract. The gelato marathon is now just a pleasing memory.

Of course, I've found ways to carefully gratify my fervid desires for creamy goodness. This chiefly involves portion control of cream cheese and heavy cream. Middle age is a wise and humbling master.

Ice cream is one of those foods that floats thick with meaning and nostalgia. My earliest memories involve humid summer nights standing in line at Dairy Queen: a girl in powder blue terry cloth shorts; the sliding window at the walk-up counter; the hum of sickly, yellow fluorescent lights, ostensibly there to keep the insects away. In defiance, flies and mosquitoes bounced erratically off of the lights. June bugs polka-dotted the white tile wall. In the swirling cloud of flying pests, I fidgeted with happy anticipation. The orders ahead of us were slowly filled and we made our impatient, mincing steps closer to the girl with the red hat, closer to my first Buster Bar.

The graduation from Dilly Bar to Buster Bar was a significant event to my earnest, young psyche. Wallowing in self-satisfaction and dripping with soft-serve, I looked at my family with new eyes. Sitting at one of the round, red fiberglass picnic tables in a jaundiced glow, we slurped and licked and bantered in the comfortable, disordered fashion of the Parkers. My dad authoritatively noted the superior flavor of Spanish peanuts, especially if they were roasted with the skins on. With renewed appreciation, I greedily crunched the nuts buried in the fudge at the bottom of the wooden stick. Surely, this was the apex of childhood delights.

There are a few beautifully sweet and cool romances that triumph over the rest. In my newly imposed state of lactic moderation, those experiences are even more precious.

Gelateria Vestri – Florence, Italy


Travel brochures may tout the perfection of Michelangelo’s David. Art historians might praise the exquisite detail of Ghiberti’s baptistry doors. Tourists can marvel at the architecture of the Duomo. But I most admire the Sicilian pistachio gelato at Vestri. It has a smoothness I never dreamed possible. Served on the verge of melting, the rich density defies the extraordinarily gentle surrender. Meaty, edgy, nutty flavor clothed in the winsome yet passionate robe of masterfully crafted creaminess—it's a life-changing gelato.

Tats Shave Ice – Oahu, Hawaii

You may need a detective, these days, to find that yellow Tats truck, but I guarantee that the fees would be nothing weighed against the thrill of the best shave ice in the islands. Matsumoto Shave Ice has a larger following and, as a tourist destination, is worth a visit. But take it from me, theirs is a snow cone compared to the weightless, fine crystals found at Tats. The lightness of the ice so unbelievably fine as to make snowflakes seem like gravel. If it weren’t for the syrup, even a large bite might be imperceptible. At the end of five days, I had a dozen holes punched in my Tats reward card. I ate my last pineapple/mango/coconut shave ice with the added pleasure of getting it for free. I would pay dearly to feel that sweet whisper on my tongue, again. I’ll never forget it.

Orange and Scarlett’s – Atlanta, Georgia

Wandering midtown Atlanta on a hot spring weekend, I found it. I'd read the reviews and knew the address. The timing was ideal. In the postprandial lull of a sweaty day of shopping I turned a corner and there was the ramshackle, orange hut with a Zagat sticker on the door. Tucked in a parking lot behind the more respectable edifices of Juniper Street, the unpretentious building made no promise of the grandeur within. I asked for a sample of strawberry. I took the little white spoon and tasted. This was no ordinary pink dessert. How could such a common food rise to these rarified heights? I imagined California fields ripe with the naïve young fruit, never knowing that one day, if the stars were properly aligned, they might have a role in creating great art.

After testing a number of creations, I asked to sample the 'Georgia Pine'. I couldn't imagine pine nuts, feta cheese and honey mingling with any harmony, but I had to try it. The first sensations made my knees weak. My eyes rolled back and I released the ecstatic groan of love fulfilled. Fireworks burst against the low ceiling. I desperately wanted more but was unable to speak. Panting, vainly trying to compose myself, I asked for two scoops. The flavors blended in an uproarious chorus. Custardy rich honey cream toppled over the nudging oily saltiness of the pine nuts. Feta crumbled between my teeth and lifted a joyfully shaking fist. It was electric. After my first few spoonfuls, I expected to be worn out by the exultant, frenetic combination; however, the joy never waned. I had seen the full face of God, and I knew I would never tire of it.

The next day, I returned. Armed with a white Styrofoam cooler and five pounds of dry ice, I giddily asked for a half gallon. I packed the ice cream among my other perishable souvenirs and readied the treasure for the drive back to Nashville. I was determined that I would never again live without my Georgia Pine.

That evening at home, I slowly savored another small serving. When I woke up, the next morning, my thoughts raced to the freezer. I knew ice cream wasn't a sensible breakfast, but I was powerless against it. I took a few small bites and was satisfied. For ten minutes. At this rate, I would have nothing left in a few days. I developed an empathy for crack addicts. The clock slowly ticked until I could reasonably indulge, again. I don’t clearly remember how I wrested free from the power of that velvety master; but, one day, it was gone, and I had to make my peace with emptiness.

I do remember the day I found Orange and Scarlett’s corpse. On another trip to Atlanta, I checked into the hotel and then went directly to Juniper Street. Georgia Pine was always my first priority. Their operation had quickly expanded to more locations, but I still preferred the quirky charm of the original. Resisting the urge to run, I turned the corner and was shocked dumb by the “For Lease” sign in the window. Did they move? They couldn't be out of business! But they were. I frantically drove to the other locations. They were as lifeless as the first Orange and Scarlett’s. In defeat, I walked numbly to the car.

Months passed and I finally accepted the mean, solid fact that my greatest ice cream romance was over. Somehow, I moved on, although the extravagance of other noble scoops still seems lessened in the shadow of Georgia Pine. I often wonder what happened to that shrine of dairy excellence, and I still ask the heavens “Why?” But, deep in my heart, I know Clarence had something to do with it. And a small part of me realizes that it was probably for my own good.