Today at work a coworker talked about being comforted by a neighbor. The neighbor brought some ice cream that she liked and put it in her freezer. The kind of ice cream she likes is hard to find. She likes black licorice ice cream. As soon as she said that my mind traveled back in time (much like Dr. Who in Tardis) and suddenly I am in my aunt and uncle's ice cream shop in Alexandria. This ice cream shop had 29 flavors. I am standing there in a line with my father and two younger siblings. I am a pre-teen. My aunt asks us if we want some ice cream. We all want ice cream. She offers us a free ice cream cone. This aunt is not particularly generous but free ice cream is free ice cream. She hands me my ice cream cone. She had 29 flavors to choose from. She did not ask our preference. She hands over 4 ice cream cones and the ice cream is black. Black. Ice. Cream. I look at it in wonder. I lick the black ice cream cone. The flavor is not what I was used to. I was used to vanilla and strawberry and chocolate ice cream. The ice cream is sweet but it tastes terrible. I know better than to complain. We choke down our ice cream cones with fake smiles. We leave the shop. My father asks how the ice cream tasted. We tell him it was terrible. He explains his sister needs to get rid of it because it is no doubt not a big seller. My friend at work likes black licorice ice cream so that proves two things: there is no accounting for taste and there is someone for everyone.
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