All scream for I’s Creme: An Ode to our Rocky Road

     When she was young, she did not care for chocolate. She wanted only the sweet, creamy, relative purity of vanilla: the succor of Mother’s milk, the manna of her creator.

     Chocolate was sweet mixed with bitterness: the sweet medium of divine manna mixed with the bitterness of separation and earthly contrast; it was a taste acquired by  numbed faculties coping with the black coffee harshness of an “adult” world.  Chocolate’s stimulant properties were just too much for her early-depleted adrenals, making her feel pressed forward beyond her pace and nature, as if hooked and prodded in the kidneys by the cattle-catcher of a speeding commuter train.

     It was only after life’s complications– the mind’s complexities– were well established that she developed a taste for chocolate. And now, decades on, quite ironically, she finds that the harsh, edgy stimulation of chocolate is required to lift her out of the coffee dregs of her circumstance, her body’s history, her psyche’s cargo, into the light of harmony and the vanilla embrace of peace and unity and inspiration.

     Such is the work of the Holy, subsuming life’s bitterness, back into the gentle denouement of vanilla, relinquishment of the KooKoo for Cocoa-Puffs  dream. Such alchemy can only happen here in Hell’s Kitchen, and it happens as we willingly take the hat and apron of the Holy Spirit.

     We see 31 (million) flavors of ice cream, feeding both our addiction to difference and our hunger for God. Ice cream: the number one comfort food, substitute for mother’s milk; imitation manna.  Difference implies choice, which gives the illusion of control. But it’s all ice cream, all vanilla underneath. The decision is already made.  Hallelujah! I’ll have a triple scoop.

Happy New Year, everyone! Binge responsibly!

 

 

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