Miss Strawberry became Dad’s mistress when he was five years old during an Italian Festival on a hot summer’s day. He fell in love with her the first time his tongue touched the cool, tangy pink treat. Dad vowed to remain faithful and to never touch the bland white vanilla again.
My father, Gerald Anthony Longo was the son of Antonio Longo, The Banana King” would roll over in his grave. Grandpa Longo was a wholesale distributor of bananas from Costa Rica. I think about my father every time I search freezer displays in major supermarkets to buy a gallon of plain strawberry.
At Acme it was Choco Loco time! My eyes quickly cased the cases: Chocolate Chip, Chocolate Swirl, Chocolate Sundae and Chocolate Chip Cookies; Chocolate Mint, Chocolate Marshmallow, Chocolate Coffee, Reese’s Pieces, Rocky Road and Tin Roof, Chocolate Banana and last but not least, Dirty Sneaker. I didn’t find one gallon of Black Raspberry, Raspberry or Strawberry! Where have all the berries gone? Neapolitan ice cream was popular but Dad would never allow Chocolate to touch Miss Strawberry.
During my childhood The Longo Ice Cream Show was performed every summer Sunday afternoon. After church Dad drove us to a local dairy bar in a shiny Packard to satisfy his desire for Miss Strawberry. My brother and older sister ordered chocolate ice cream and I ordered vanilla. The regular size cone was top heavy with a triple scoop. When my little stomach was full I whined, “I can’t finish it.” That was Dad’s cue to reach over to the back seat, snatch my cone and yell, “Why didn’t you order strawberry?”
Dad drove slowly (DUIMS) under the influence of Miss Strawberry. The wind in my hair was my cue. I would stretch my arm, cone in hand, out the car window, mesmerized by the flying streams of melted white cream that etched vertical designs across the body of the car. At home Dad stood next to the car, shook his pointed finger at me, screaming, “Carole. You did it. I know because it was vanilla.” Fans could catch a rerun of the show next week.
The Lover became an expert on the texture, flavor and creaminess of his mistress. Dad eagerly commented on strawberry ice cream at turnpike rest stops, drive in movies, diners, dairy bars and five star restaurants in Las Vegas, New York and even at DiMaggio’s along the San Francisco Wharf. He freely expressed his opinions without fear even in Mexico and Canada. Dad remained faithful to Miss Strawberry for eighty years. Finally he succumbed to temptation because vanilla was the only choice at the Frozen Custard booth in Niagara Falls across from the Seventh Wonder of the World.
When Dad had seventy-seven years of experience he was eighty-five and the appointed time arrived. He was as pumped up as a politician ready to announce the winner of the Number One brand of strawberry ice cream based on flavor, texture, creaminess, melting time and quality and quantity of the strawberries. As part of Dad’s research he concluded the ice cream wasn’t real if it was too hard or didn’t drip and melt quickly. This Judge stalled his decision while the captive family respectfully waited. “And the Number One winner and champion Strawberry Ice Cream, Ladies and Gentlemen is ----Crestmont, available at A & P Supermarkets.” The audience yawned. After all, what did he know?
In the summer of 1995, Dad was admitted to Princeton Medical Center with a serious illness and was
surrounded by his love ones. Dad, “What can I get you,” I tenderly asked. “Strawberry cone,” he replied weakly. My brother quickly bolted downstairs, returned with the cone and held it to Dad’s mouth. Even though the Expert was hooked up to IVs, after two licks he still had enough strength to yell, “This isn’t ice cream!” Dad certainly knew the difference between the real thing, Miss Strawberry and frozen yogurt.
Shortly after Dad died, Consumer Reports featured ratings on ice cream. The clinical trials included the inexpensive and gourmet brands. To my surprise, the magazine selected Crestmont as a Best Buy rating it higher than Haagen Dazs. “I told you so,” I thought I heard Dad say.
Back at the supermarkets, still searching, the closest I came to berry ice cream was Red, White and Blue by Jack and Jill. It was a concoction of vanilla with maraschino cherries and a raspberry swirl. At home, my spoon bent backwards when I struggled with the frozen mass. “Is this really ice cream? I wondered.
Ironically, this year on the Fourth of July when I placed a flag at my father’s grave, I spotted tiny red wild berries peeking out from behind the marker. I smiled. The Food Network never invited Dad to be a guest but he would have gladly told the experts about his mistress –Miss Strawberry Ice Cream. .