A Sundae Pause
The world right now is garbage. Not in a poetic way. Not in a “we’ll get through this” caption-under-a-sunset way. Just plain, heavy, exhausting garbage.
I debated whether to post at all. Silence felt reasonable. Posting felt questionable. But I’m still breathing, which suggests opting out entirely isn’t really on the table.
Two things can be true at the same time: we do what needs doing - making a stand and helping others - and we look for ways to keep ourselves intact enough to continue. That requires comfort. Not as denial, but as fuel.
I’m not in Minneapolis. I’m trying to find ways to help from where I am. I assume you are too.
Lately, my version of keeping myself intact - in order to keep on trying - has veered into sweet territory.
I’ve been thinking a lot about childhood flavors - things that feel grounding without being sentimental. I may eventually get around to a dessert involving Cracker Jack, but in the meantime I’ve been leaning hard into sundaes. Not the run-of-the-mill Hershey’s squeeze-top chocolate syrup and bright red cherry-on-top kind, but the intentional, creative ones. The kind you serve to people you care about. The kind that show up at the end of a meal and say, take a moment for yourself and stay a little longer.
One such sundae was served at a dinner party: Meyer lemon ice cream, bright and sharp, topped with whipped cream and a salty crunch made from crushed saltines tossed with melted butter and sugar, toasted until golden and scattered generously on top. Sweet, sour, salty, cold, creamy, crunchy. Simple, but not small in pleasure.
Other sundaes I’ve been serving fall into a category I like to call coppetta - Italian for “little cup,” and also, conveniently, a perfect word for coping. These are layered desserts built in glasses, meant to be eaten slowly, preferably in good company.
In one case, chunks of chocolate cake at the bottom of the glass were topped with homemade passion fruit ice cream, whipped cream, and a vivid passion fruit sauce. In another, chocolate cake again - because you can never get enough chocolate cake - followed by ice cream folded with chocolate chips and strawberry ripple, finished with whipped cream and cocoa nibs. Each one made for sharing, for passing spoons across a table, for a collective pause.
If this sounds frivolous, I get it. But frivolous doesn’t mean meaningless. There’s something stabilizing about making something with care and offering it to people you love. About letting pleasure exist alongside everything else without apology.
We need small pleasures alongside the hard work and the never-ending news cycle-from-hell (or “heil” in this case). Small pleasures in the form of a pause that restores enough energy to keep showing up.
Sometimes that pause looks like a sundae - perhaps soon with Cracker Jack at play.
A sundae of American dreams and hope.