I remember my first taste of Ben & Jerry’s. It was outside the IGA in East Hampton, CT, with my friend Rachel. We were eighth-graders, loitering in the grocery store parking lot after school as only teenagers seem to enjoy doing. We each had a pint of Cherry Garcia — Rachel insisted we each have our own pint — and marveled at the generous chunks, the perfect cherries.
Never, EVER has ice cream tasted as good as it did on that hot day, sitting on the hot sidewalk, with my best friend.
Except maybe this past weekend. With my nephews. And the man in my life. And obscene quantities of frozen sweet cream that no 5-year-old, 10-year-old or 30-something-year-old has any business ordering. Servings larger than some of our heads. Servings that would later be regretted by a few of us.
But, really, we had to do it. We had journeyed to the mother ship, Ben & Jerry’s HQ in Waterbury, VT, and there was no going back.
We toured. We bought. We binged.