We were young and foolish. We were teenagers: a group of neighborhood girls, inseparable most days.
We had to lose weight for an upcoming event in a few months.
The diet we chose was the Ice Cream Diet. Instead of eating three meals a day, we had ice cream for a month—for breakfast, lunch, dinner, and any snacks in between.
It started great!
We persuaded our parents to get our favorite flavors. Rocky Road, Cherry Garcia, Pralines and Cream, Rum Raisin—we got them all.
We weighed in every week and lost between three and five pounds each in the first week. We were so excited! Perhaps one pound each in the second week. By then, we hated ice cream.
By the end of our fourth week, at least one of us vomited at the sight of ice cream, and she was the only one who had maintained the weight she had lost that first week.
Devastating!
Years passed before I saw ice cream as a treat.
The thought of all that ice cream still triggers my salivary glands, but not in a good way.
It doesn’t help that I’m lactose intolerant.
As the warm hues of fall painted the landscape in golden tones, my college roommate, Nancy, invited me to spend a weekend at her family’s farm, about an hour away.
Despite shorter days and cooler weather, the weekend’s forecast predicted temperatures of 80°F or higher.
I couldn’t wait to visit a real working farm, meet my roommate’s parents, and see all the animals she had talked about.
I eagerly accepted the invitation, looking forward to the adventures that awaited me.
Upon arriving at the picturesque farmhouse, the sights and sounds of rural life greeted me. The sweet melodies of chirping birds filled the air, and the gentle mooing of cows resonated in the distance. Nancy’s family warmly welcomed me, inviting me to immerse myself in their way of life for the weekend.
The next morning, Nancy’s mother, a gracious woman, guided me to the barn to teach me the art of milking a cow. Through her patience and skill, I learned the rhythmic movements of milking, feeling a deep connection to the earth and gentle cows.
However, the highlight of the weekend turned out to be my undoing.
Nancy’s mother, a masterful cook, presented a delectable treat at the end of the meal—slow-churned peach ice cream, made from the freshest peaches harvested and bottled on the farm.
My heart sank as I remembered my past encounters with peaches (that’s another story for some other time), the love-hate relationship I had with ice cream, and my struggle with lactose intolerance.
With a gracious smile, I accepted the bowl of peach ice cream; my mind conflicted with gratitude and apprehension. As I took a hesitant spoonful, the creamy sweetness melted on my tongue, bringing a flood of contradictory emotions. I savored the flavor, trying to ignore the warning signs my body was sending.
Despite my best efforts, my body rebelled against the rich dairy indulgence. I excused myself, retreating to the tranquility of the airy farmhouse porch.
There, shaded from the warm autumn sun, I listened to my stomach rumble and reflected on the bittersweet experience, grateful for the hospitality and love of Nancy’s family, yet rueful because of my own limitations.
As the weekend came to a close, I bid farewell to Nancy’s family, carrying with me memories of laughter and a newfound appreciation for the simple joys of farm life.
So it was with my stomach in turmoil, I returned to college, forever altered by my weekend on the farm.
Author’s Note
It will NOT surprise you to learn, the Ice Cream Diet is not a good diet.
This all happened before I could take Lactaid pills before eating dairy. If I have the pills on hand and if I remember to take one, I can enjoy a bowl of ice cream or an ice cream cone.
I sometimes wonder if I still have the muscle memory to milk a cow.
Upcoming…
A poem about a school shooting:
Why?, 11 September 2024
My new book of poetry and prose, The Edges
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Ha! This is like me with soup!
Hysterical!!! I once overdosed on chocolate chip cookies and couldn't eat them for five years.