While 40 is still a little ways off, you’d think I’d know by know how to eat a ice-cream cone neatly.
We decided to head to Milwaukee Frozen Custard and treat ourselves to a scoop. I asked very plainly and clearly for a two small scoops in a cone. But that’s not what I got, instead, I got two buckets of ice-cream, technically custard, balanced on top of a very full cone.
By the time I stepped outside into 56F degree weather, it had started running down the code, and I quickly went into mess prevention mode by catching the melting ice-cream and reshaping it with my tongue. Yes, I do have certain talents.
Anyhow, I deliberately stood outside the vehicle, refusing to enter, until I had things well under control.
I took the passenger’s seat and we drove off. About 3 minutes into the trip, I had without doubt, the worst ice-cream blowout that excelled beyond anything imaginable in my entire youth. And I mean all my youth.
I looked down and the whole front of my shirt had been mysteriously covered in dripping chocolate, it was running down my leg, in my crotch, smeared on my sleeve, on and under the seatbelt, running onto the seat, and going inside the seatbelt mechanism.
What made it a mystery is that I was being exceedingly careful. I had the cone wrapped in a napkin, which was still clean. The perimeter of the cone had no drippage. My hand was clean. The cone bottom was dry and secure, having it rest on my pinky to detect moisture. My face was clean.
I ended up grabbing a fist full of napkins and cleaning my shirt, the seatbelt, the car, my pants, my arm… and moments later, I was covered again.
I cleaned up again. Bewildered, I inspected the cone. I held it there for a minute, and nothing was running out.
One lick, and I was covered again. The driver was in tears, so he wasn’t able to do anything but laugh, cry, and mock me.
We got to our destination, and I stepped out of the car, joking about that being the worst experience ever, and before I got to the door, again, I was covered from chest to foot. Insane!
I cleaned up with a pile of paper towels, sat at my computer, and looked down to see more chocolate running down my shirt. Frustrated, I devoured the cone and went to the wash room to clean up.
The only thing I can conclude was that this batch of custard had a much higher melting point, and that my hand holding the cone had melted the inside to a chocolaty liquid soup. When I gave even the most tenderest of licks to the ice-cream on top, the slightest pressure caused a jet of melted custard to squirt out all over me, dribble cup style.
Anyhow, I’ve just proven to myself that no matter what age one is, when traveling with ice-cream in a car, the proper container is a cup with a spoon. Especially if one is about to meet with clients.