Day Twenty-Five - We All Scream For...

The San Juan Freezer. A Bucktown fixture. I'm twenty-eight years old, and the last time I encountered an ice cream truck with any degree of consistency was a a young lad while visiting Grandma Helen and Grandpap Pete in Ambridge, Pennsylvania. I remember hearing that jangly song, dancing out from the back of the truck from a beat up speaker, letting all the grandchildren know it was time to spend grandma and grandpa's hard earned and hard saved dollar on something sweet. I remember running, as fast as my husky frame would allow, bare foot, with heels and pads stained black from residual iron soot in the air of the blue-est collar town in America. All for a Screwball.

I miss Screwballs. Maybe I'm tired of fancy restaurant desserts with dark chocolate, ganache, demi glace, mousse, and hazelnuts. Maybe I just want a Screwball every once and a while. Is that so wrong? I don't even know if the SJF has Screwballs, but I'll keep on imagining that it does... and every time I see this truck, I'll imagine a miniature version of myself, chasing down sweet treats, barefoot, holding one of Helen and Pete's dollars.