For the Love of Ice Cream

Oh, ice cream. Best thing since sliced (Napolitano) bread. Bold statement from a bread loving heart, even eight years into grain-free existence. From Klondike bars in a bowl with Uncle Joe to the impatiently crafted milkshakes of cousin summers in Bay City, little more than scoops from a gallon bucket floating in a glass of red cap milk, but delightfully delicious all the same. The awkward closure of the paper half gallon, drippy orange Push Up Pops on the porch and delighting when you got the “extra” from the milkshake order at Tony’s. Hot fudge brownie sundae’s at Big Boy’s, soft serve swirled high on a cake cone, wondering exactly how long the car ride home from the cabin was, that Uncle Joe could have ice cream available from start to finish.

Near the end of a decade living in Muskegon, it was only through the graduation speech of a native Iowan that I realized the ubiquity of ice cream shops was anything other than normal. In the peak of my racing career, ice cream was as much a part of the training plan as the swim, bike and run intervals. Mint chocolate chip made for great pre-race carb loading and post-race celebration. I fueled my longest ever endurance event with a notable volume of TCBY shivers, resulting in a 9lb6oz podium finish that cued me into the need for closer attention to dosing.

Honest assessment of my habits and hang-ups, I reprioritized my intake, sacrificing the bread I had loved for so long. Recognizing the sneaky forms it could assume that led easily into over-consumption, I drew firmer boundaries for myself in this arena and reserved available carb intake to the glories of ice cream. The styles and quality shifted – local, org