In Which I Overanalyze My Ice Cream

26 Feb



I once had a love affair with Ben & Jerry’s half baked ice cream. It was intense. It was exclusive. It lasted the entire time I lived in London.

I don’t want to say it was a relationship of convenience because I don’t want to cheapen what we had, but it turns out my interest in half baked ice cream was very situational. And geographical. When I returned to the United States and the comfort of other American food, half baked ice cream and I parted ways. On bad terms.

Like I-never-want-to-see-you-again-also-I-wish-I-had-never-met-you terms.

A year passed and things remained awkward between us. There seemed to be no hope of reconciliation. Then last week I was shopping at Pavilions checking out the ice cream aisle when suddenly it hit me–I wanted half baked ice cream!


I checked in with myself.

Are you sure? This is half baked ice cream we are talking about. You never liked it that much in the first place. It just reminded you of home.

Yes. I want it.

But you don’t eat half baked ice cream anymore.


I got the ice cream. And ate the ice cream. It was tasty.

As I sat licking my spoon, it hit me. London was a hard time for me, and some ways I’ve been in recovery ever since. Was this return to half baked ice cream the final step? The ultimate you’ve-moved-on-Jill moment? A million questions ran through my mind.

Is half baked ice cream a symbol of my psyche now?

What will happen now that I am a whole, complete person that can eat half baked ice cream again?

Am I assigning too much weight to the ice cream?

Are there several other layers of meaning to the half baked ice cream?

And then I stopped thinking and enjoyed my ice cream. Because I have changed since London. And sometimes ice cream is just ice cream.

Win: Jill.

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