What's the Scoop?

Chipping away at an essay....

Photo by American Heritage Chocolate on Unsplash

In my marriage, we divide the labor. My husband manages the business side of the house, and I share the important news of the day. So when my husband flips the narrative and shares some news with me, I pay attention.

“They’re getting rid of Vanilla Chocolate Chip ice cream,” he announces. “It’s in the Times.”

He’s got my attention.

In the craft of writing, this is known as The Inciting Incident, the event that starts things moving. It certainly incites me – and triggers the region of my brain responsible for all forms of overthinking. Who are “they” and why would they do such a thing? Is there anything like a seed bank for ice cream flavors? And because everything is copy as Nora Ephron said, can I turn this into an essay?

The plot takes off. I do some research and find the article in the New York Times Business section,[1] which may explain why my husband found it first. Just as he said, Vanilla Chocolate Chip ice cream is fading into oblivion, forced from the freezer by more bespoke-like flavors. Flavors like Chocolate Hazelnut. Dark Chocolate Cookies & Cream. Tik Tok Tofutti (soursop soy ice milk with gummy sharks, 88.5% cacao “healthy chocolate” flakes, and a CBD oil swirl). If you’re Googling Tik Tok Tofutti to see where you can buy some, it doesn’t exist yet. But I just filed a patent, so call me if you’re interested in a licensing deal. I may not read the Times Business section, but I do watch Shark Tank. I know from licensing deals.

I’m part of the problem. I grew up a Vanilla Chocolate Chip girl but went over to Cookie Dough years ago. In my current post-empty-nest phase where I’m done setting an example, I’ve also been experimenting with flavors like Pear & Blue Cheese, Strawberry Honey Balsamic w/ Black Pepper, and the deceptively simple Buckeye (peanut butter ice cream with fudge ripple and buckeye candy pieces).[2] I never did things like this before we moved to California.

But now, beneath the harsh light of the west coast sun, I gaze into a sky the color of a scoop of Cookie Monster (blue vanilla with Oreo and Chips Ahoy! bits), but I pine for a scoop of Vanilla Chocolate Chip. As Joni Mitchell sang (I’m referencing Big Yellow Taxi here), “You don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone.” It’s like they paved Carvel and put up a Salt & Straw.[3]

As I speed toward sixty, the thought of anything becoming obsolete cuts deep. When I pictured myself talking to grandkids about the Olden Days, I thought I’d be talking about how we used to drive cars with internal combustion engines or, hopefully, how carbs used to be bad. But no. Instead, I’ll be reminiscing about how it felt to lick a melting scoop of Vanilla Chocolate Chip on a hot summer day. Not quite how I thought I’d be talkin’ ‘bout my generation, but you can’t always get what you want.

If I’m going to make an essay of this, I need to connect Vanilla Chocolate Chip to something. My thoughts pivot, as they will, to Astronaut Ice Cream, the freeze-dried, ice cream-adjacent novelty that fascinated me when I was a kid. But then my thoughts pivot again to a NASA job posting I recently saw for the position of Astronaut Candidate. I’ll never make the first cut, but knowing I can apply to become an astronaut just like the next person makes me smile.

My favorite part of the job description is the part labelled Travel Required. “76% or greater,” it says. “Extensive travel required.” I ponder whether NASA has a great sense of irony, a superb sense of humor, neither, or both. I wonder how NASA calculated the 76% part. And, because it’s how my mind works, I search for references to Astronaut Ice Cream. I search under Duties (must eat Astronaut Ice Cream?), Qualifications (must love Astronaut Ice Cream?), even Compensation (will be paid in Astronaut Ice Cream?). Nothing. It turns out real astronauts can’t eat Astronaut Ice Cream. The fact it’s freeze-dried means it’s crumbly, and floating crumbs and high-tech space equipment don’t mix. You wouldn’t have that problem with Vanilla Chocolate Chip.

Now, I’m stewing. Vanilla Chocolate Chip, Joni Mitchell, Astronaut Ice Cream, an Astronaut Candidate job posting. There’s got to be an essay in this, but how do I blend and package all these chocolate chip-like pieces? I want to concoct something that delights you – but can I do it without adding Pop Rocks, Balsamic Crème from Modena, and dried dragon fruit with a hint of chili-lime?

In my writing process, this is when I take a walk to seek wisdom from the Universe.

I step outside shortly after sunset, into that moment when the California sky turns inky blue overhead and the pinks and oranges in the west turn their brightest. I walk toward the westward glow and notice the most striking vapor plume I’ve ever seen. It’s brilliant white, lit from beneath by what’s left of the sun. I watch as the tip of the plume heads my way, I watch as it silently crosses my field of vision, and I stare as its source shoves the sky aside from within a parabola-shaped shock wave. A plane wouldn’t leave a plume this dense. Or fly so high. Or punch through the air like a—

—and then I see. The Universe hasn’t sent me a plane. It’s sent me something better. It’s sent me a rocket hurtling into space.[4]

I’ve taken enough writing classes to know I shouldn’t introduce something unexpected near the end of an essay as an easy way to wrap things up. That technique, called deus ex machina (Latin for “god from the machine”), is kind of like cheating. But what do I do when Deus literally sends a great big machina my way at just the moment I’m getting my writerly chips in a row?

I stand in the middle of my California street, gobsmacked, tracing a rocket and its glowing plume across the darkening sky. I watch until the rocket fades into oblivion like a scoop of Vanilla Chocolate Chip ice cream, leaving nothing but the plume. The struggles of what to put on the page fall away. The words fall into place. And I turn toward home, ready to write.

The Dénouement (French for “writing past the ending?” Or, perhaps, “one last word about chips?”)

The key to finishing an essay is knowing when to end. To not, as my writerly mentors tell me, “write past the ending.” I sense I ended this essay with the previous paragraph. But I just read the manufacturer of the cookie of my childhood is about to “update” its perfectly fine chocolate chips by upping the cacao content and using a higher-concentrate Madagascar vanilla extract. Et tu, Chips Ahoy?

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[1] “Chip by Chip, This Ice Cream Flavor Is Melting Away.” New York Times (February 15, 2024).

[2] If you, too, wish to dabble, you’ll find Pear & Blue Cheese and Strawberry Honey Balsamic w/ Black Pepper at Salt & Straw, and the deceptively simple Buckeye at Handel’s. I promise I won’t judge you. They’re great.

[3] Carvel’s still around and sells Vanilla Chocolate Chip, which you won’t find at Salt & Straw. Salt & Straw does, however, sell excellent bespoke ice cream.

[4] Later, I’ll learn it wasn’t the Universe that sent the rocket. It was SpaceX. I didn’t know this at the time, and I’m glad I didn’t. It would’ve killed the magic.