Most of our childhood is stored not in photos, but in certain biscuits, lights of day, smells, textures of carpet…
– Alain de Botton
Because I’m a glutton, of course one of mine would be raspberry ice cream. Sounds strange, I know. I’ve looked for it in grocery stores here, but they only have that “sorbet” that turns into a sticky pond of high fructose corn syrup at the bottom of my bowl. Besides, its flavor isn’t compatible with sugar cones, which I adore.
I only had it once. I was 15, spending the summer at Oxford studying drama and psychology. I wouldn’t even know how to find my way back there. I followed someone else, seemingly through the woods. I think we passed a cow on the way — a shy one who didn’t want to be pet. It was a strawberry farm with palm-sized strawberries sweeter than I thought possible. They were selling home made ice cream. Since I’d had strawberry before, I tried the raspberry. I’ve never forgotten it. All those perfect days spent inappropriately lazing on lawns, tripping on cobblestones, being spoken to in British. I’m sure it’ll all flood back with just one taste.
