All I wanted was an ice cream cone. Just one ice cream cone.* What could go wrong?
I’ve gotten pretty good about not going out for ice cream. For a while this summer, the Houseguest and I were popping over to the local Baskin Robbins** like a couple of crackheads hitting up the dealers in Hamsterdam on HBO’s The Wire (by the way, best show ever — well, other than Game of Thrones, and maybe Breaking Bad. The Walking Dead is good, too. And then there’s The Sopranos. Anyway, I digress).
So, eventually, we kicked that habit, which helped with my waistline reduction. Or more precisely, the Houseguest got off that kick, and since I’m a follower, I effectively stopped eating ice cream too. Every once in awhile, I’d say “Hey, wanna go for an ice cream?” and be told no by Ms. Ironwill. And because I’m not motivated enough to go up there by myself, I haven’t had any ice cream in months.
Today, in preparation for her impending trip to India to visit family and go on a tiger tour, the Houseguest was heading to Bookman’s in Mesa to trade some mystery novels in for some new reading material and asked if I wanted to tag along. Not really, but I hadn’t seen the sun in several days, so what the hell, I decided I’d go see what the Daywalkers were up to.
On the drive back to my house, I mentioned Baskin Robbins to her and got shot down. But then for dinner, she had Kung Pao chicken and it was far spicier than she realized and she wanted something cool and sweet. Unexpectedly, Baskin Robbins was back in play.
Once in the store, I moved along peering at the ice cream flavors trying to make up my mind. The flavor I had been getting was a specialty one, long gone. It was some combination of vanilla, walnut, chocolate, caramel, and brownie. I could be making that up — I can’t remember the specific combination other than it was delicious. But sadly, it was no more. Instead, they had a new flavor of the month called Bobsled Brownie. Oooh, I love brownies! So I read the description — fudge crackle swirl (no idea what the crackle part means), blonde brownie pieces, milk chocolate mousse and butter caramel flavored ice creams. Okay, I was meh about the fudge, but everything else was spot on. Sign me up!
I immediately bit into the globe of ice-cold goodness and got some ice cream but a whole lot of fudge. I’ll be honest — I’m not a huge fudge fan. Melted fudge on a Sundae, okay, but I don’t typically eat it in solid form. In moderation, like a thin ribbon threading through the ice cream, it can be a nice compliment, but I was really looking forward to the brownie pieces, which seemed to be scarce. All I was tasting was fudge.
As I worked my way past the first layer of ice cream, the ribbon of fudge proved to be not a ribbon at all but something akin to the fudge mother lode. In fact, something was decidedly wrong because other than a thin veneer of ice cream, it seemed to be all fudge.
So there I was, gnawing my way through this block of fudge like a determined beaver attacking a mighty redwood. It was hard going and starting to get a little disconcerting because there seemed to be no more ice cream, just unending fudge. I kept chewing. Good Lord, how much fudge was there? Well, let me tell you — a fuck load.
So, as I grimly continued to work my way towards Type 2 Diabetes looking for tiny pockets of ice cream, I caught a glimpse of the Houseguest shaking with near silent laughter. I was in no mood for shenanigans.
“Your mouth. Your lips are completely black! You look like that picture with the makeup.” (For those of you not acquainted with this picture, let’s just say it’s from my youthful wannabe punk days when death punk seemed like a good idea. Jason Etzel from Interactive Realm described the look as if Ronald McDonald and The Crow had a kid. We’ll leave it at that).
Eventually, the fudge berg was too much for me to overcome and I gave up and chucked it into the garbage can and munched on the sugar cone. That ended up leaving me with serious cotton mouth because normally the inside of the cone is lubricated with melting ice cream but because of the fudge barrier, it was bone dry.
The whole experience sucked.
I can’t imagine this is what the master ice cream maker had in mind when he or she created this recipe. The only thing I can think of is some clown at the ice cream factory had a wicked hangover when he mixed this batch up. Either way, you can bet I’m not risking my next rare visit to Baskin Robbins on Bobsled Brownie.