When I was younger, angrier and more intense; I opted to write nothing but serious, intense diatribes about world hunger, the corruption of governments and the destruction of morals in the modern world. The groaning’s of youth equally misinformed as they were miserably pointless. In my maturing years I have moved away from searing intensity and began to enjoy the little things in life, the things that really matter. On that note, and with much enthusiasm, I consider ice cream brands and what we really look for when we pop open a tub of that cold, sweet delicious goodness. Let us begin with the illusive ice cream van and the fun of the chase.
That infernal song jingles its way closer and closer, ears peak as it parks close by and you clamber around looking for your shoes lost under a mountain of unwashed laundry. Stumbling over piles of books you haven’t read since university but keep in view to impress visitors who don’t know you well enough to know that the mess in your living room is in fact a cleverly orchestrated ruse to fool them into thinking you still use that addled mind. As you stub your toes against hideous furniture that looks worse and worse every time you look at it, you contemplate taking it to the skip. Foraging around for door keys you haven’t seen for days to open a door that is already unlocked.
When you do finally get outside you have three options. Option one is to purchase a brand name, plastic packaged and wildly overpriced mediocre ice cream on a stick. Pass. Hard pass. Option two is cheap and cheerful screwball with the tough re-frozen vanilla ice cream with bland, red syrup running through it. Again, a hard pass. Option three is the Mr Whippy cone with a 99 flake. The soft and fluffy pure white substance that is sugar laden and lacking in any real food but seemingly contrived in a lab with nothing other than E-numbers. The faux-cream, if you will.
Out of those, option three is the only real choice. It’s light and un-filling consistency makes for a relatively enjoyable snack that won’t ruin your appetite, and the ice cream itself can be used wonderfully in some kinky, fun foreplay if you so wish. However, this is an impulse purchase and never a planned venture of sustenance.
The next ice cream choice you have is the hard made, awful tasting and consistency repulsive homemade variety. This is not a hard no, but rather a solid “fuck no”. For the Delia Smiths around this option may be the most viable and pleasurable, enjoying the fruits of your own labour. For the laymen, this is just a disaster waiting to happen and in fact costs almost triple what the store-bought equivalent would. I have attempted to create my own frozen bowl of joy only to chip a tooth and sit rubbing an aching stomach for hours afterwards. Making your own ice cream is not a valid choice and if you believe it to be so, then I suggest this blog is not for you unless you send a hefty sample via special delivery to prove me wrong.
Finally, and with the enthusiasm this spiel promised, is the store-bought ice cream. The Ben & Jerry’s, the Haagen Dasz and even the simple but often enjoyable store brands. The true debate here is between BJ’s and Haagen Dasz. The former offers the fun and playful flavours that make you feel young and rebellious. Knowing that eating the full tub of Chocolate fudge brownie or Phish Food will add pounds to your waistline and make your stomach perform somersaults the next day, you still shovel spoon after spoon of its delightful goodness into your wet, inviting mouth. Ben and Jerry’s turns you into a ravenous, dairy craving whore. A slut that rejects all logic and reason in order to justify the turbulent stomach ache you are soon to endure. However, if your frozen, dairy dream is to smear a supple and sexually motivated lover with its cold goodness then you are in for a world of disappointment. Imagine taking your tongue down the centre of her stomach towards the heavenly centre you yearn for only to discover a chocolate fish, you could be forgiven for mistakenly thinking you are in one of Fred Durst’s surreal dreams where hot dog flavoured water is your only liquid aid. Likewise, finding a piece of half-baked cookie dough or brownie in the heavenly gooch (the area between vagina and anus) the mood is dead and your wood rescinded. Ben and Jerry’s is not for kinky, funky fun between two consenting adults. Still, the flavours and that magnificent “core” line they offer make BJ’s the ice cream of routine and regular consumption, in my house at least.
Then there’s, Haagen Dasz, the sophisticated ice cream. So classy it feels inappropriate to label as a mere “ice cream”. Whenever I see it on the shelf, looming over me all gold and fancy, I feel somehow inadequate of its consumption. For some unknown reason, I feel like a fraud as the other, more sophisticated customers peruse the same flavours but seemingly know what they want. Unlike me of course, who stands gawping like a stoner at the sweet counter trying to decipher the coded flavour descriptions. When I am confident in my own tastes to buy a Haagen Dasz tub, I take it home hidden in a bag, scared that a stranger may spot it and quiz me about the secret flavours hidden within that red and gold tub. What infuriates me with this specific brand, is that despite its sophisticated veneer, underneath the secret flavours that scare me so, are terribly ordinary. Delightful, masterful even, in their execution, but simple.
Haagen Dasz is reserved for two purpose. An evening of entertaining friends who pretend to be fooled by your concealment of hidden takeaway containers as they praise your cooking. Perfect for a desert or a desert accompaniment, it will satisfy the most brutally critical of dinner guests. Secondly, and where HG wins me completely, is its soft, sweet, slow defrost talent. This makes it the perfect ice cream to lather up a hot, playful partner on a filthy-fun tryst. The way it glides down skin is truly sublime, it’s almost as if the person who invented it did so for one reason: food orientated fucking foreplay. Delicious, practical and sophisticatedly playful, Haagen Dasz is the king of store bought luxury ice creams.