Friday was a day of celebration. It marked my two years in Peace Corps and my sitemate Matt’s one year. It was also one of the not so rare occurrences when we were the only two people left at school. I often feel like the hardest working person on staff, but it’s even more glaring on days like this. Less than an hour after school got out, the campus was empty, save for Matt and I hanging out in the office, grading papers, making copies, and generally enjoying our pocket of America.
After we finished our work for the day, Matt and I were locking up the school when he casually mentioned that he might have some ice cream when he got home. Casually. Dumbfounded, I stuttered a question along the lines of “Wha….?” As it turns out, the store Matt’s family runs at his house regularly stocks ice cream, and somehow this was the first I’d heard of it. Blasphemy.
My family also runs a store, though slightly smaller than the one at Matt’s house. I rarely, if ever, go to the store at Matt’s house because I feel like I’m cheating on my family’s store if I do. But for icecream? I can put my morals aside for ice cream.
I don’t know if I can accurately portray to you all at home in America the gravity of the situation. Ice cream was to be had, in my village. Not in town. In my village. And not soupy ice cream that was bought in town and transported the 45 minutes to my village. Cold, fresh ice cream. Opportunities like this cannot be passed up.
To my delight, the ice cream was not vanilla or plain chocolate or even strawberry, as I most commonly see, but Rocky Road. Rocking freaking Road. This was a big deal, people.
I bought Matt and I each a cone with scoops bigger than my fist, and basked in the immeasurable joy that is ice cream.
The walk from Matt’s house to my house is roughly seven minutes, and as I began my leisurely stroll down the path, licking the luscious Rocky Road that was dripping down my hand (despite the fact that it was cool and drizzly outside), I suddenly realized that I had roughly five minutes of walk-time left to devour all evidence of my ice cream bliss.
It was imperative that my family not know that I had ice cream for two reasons: one, I didn’t want to share, and two, my family believes that I don’t eat ice cream.
Let me explain myself. When living in a foreign country with unusual food, you’re often faced with situations in which you have to gracefully turn down questionable dishes. Early on in my service, I was given something made with milk that seemed less than fresh. I told my family I’m allergic to milk, which is technically true, I am lactose intolerant. But I rarely let that stand in my way. Yes, I drink soy milk, but other than that, I can down a pizza or a cheese burger and finish it off with a milkshake, no problem. Occasionally I take lactaid pills, but usually I just suffer the consequences.
But rather than explain all that and have to admit that I didn’t want to eat the food being given me, I just said that milk makes me very sick. This was not a big deal until my family figured out that milk is in ice cream. Whenever we have ice cream at my house, which is not all that often (maybe five or six times in the past two years), I always abstain. I sit sadly, with longing in my eyes and watch the kids drink their ice cream soup. To eat ice cream would be to admit that I not so much lied, but embellished the truth. And so, I remained ice cream free. The misery enveloped me.
So, back on the path with the ice cream that could convict me, I abruptly stopped savoring and began furiously eating, pushing through the brain freeze. As I rounded the final bend and came across my favorite cousin Disha playing in the mud, I shoved the last bit of cone in my mouth and tried to muster a smile while keeping my mouth completely shut. She giggled and I thought I was in the clear. Mission accomplished. But as it turns out, I forgot one crucial detail.
“Owomwen sokoled!” she squeeled. (There’s chocolate on your face!)
Busted.
Enjoy your ice cream!
--Christy
