My Husband Drives Me Crazy IV

My husband is the single least selfish person I know. He is ridiculously generous and thoughtful to everyone he knows. It’s actually quite unbelievable. Except, when it comes to ice cream. Where frozen confection is concerned, he’s one selfish mother fucker.

Let’s begin with the box: Rather than soften ice cream on the counter like a normal person, he insists on microwaving the carton each and every time. Not just enough to make it easy to scoop, but to make it half liquid. A soupy, sloppy, pourable mess. The result is a container of freezer-burned mush by the second consumption.

Bowl? Never. Cup? Cone? Nope. A single spoon is dipped again and again, between multiple flavors. I’ve found bits of peanut butter ice cream mixed into the mint chip. Cherry doesn’t combine well with caramel ice cream, unless it’s on top of a sundae and I prefer my health bar without a tinge of strawberry. Personally.

It’s no surprise that he’s also a picker. I will confess to picking out toppings mercilessly myself. I will even confess to picking out toppings from the commercial tubs while working at an ice cream store over the summer when I was a teenager. (The shop is long gone, so don’t bother calling the board of health.) However, I do have the courtesy to trash ice cream once there is clearly nothing to hunt for. I have found gallons here, with nothing but an inch of soupy, topping-less vanilla skimming the bottom. Who on earth wants to eat that?

The above photograph is actual evidence provided to me courtesy of my brother. We stayed at his place last weekend en route home from a week away. My husband, unable to resist the animal urge for chocolate, made himself a bit too at home with Ben & Jerry’s Half Baked. Matt called me, incredulous. That’s Jeff, I replied, unfazed. Sorry. At least now you know better than to eat ice cream at our house.