When I was two—and I swear to you I remember the entire thing—I threw a raging fit in an ice cream parlor in Maine. I wanted a scoop of vanilla. The nice man at the counter handed me a cone with a scoop of ice cream. But it was clearly not vanilla. It was yellow.
“That’s banana ice cream!” I said.
“No, sweetie, the vanilla ice cream is just naturally yellow.” He pointed to another tub of ice cream in the case. “That’s banana, right there.” (Oddly enough, he happened to have banana flavored ice cream).
“But it’s white!! That’s vanilla!”
If you have ever tried to be polite to an obstinate two-year-old, you know this conversation went no where. My mom must have been in a really good mood since we were on vacation, because both she and my grandmother just let me carry on. As much as they tried to convince me to pick out an ice cream: strawberry, chocolate, tutti fruiti, whatever, I left the ice cream shop empty handed. I recall believing the man at some point, but I stuck to my beliefs on principle. Vanilla ice cream is supposed to be white. Not yellow.
This ice cream is sure to disappoint my inner toddler.