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Strolling down sensory lane

Strolling down sensory lane
Purple irises remind me of walking through my grandmother’s garden in Washington thirty-five years ago. The smell of Pine-sol cleaner reminds me of the mint-green bathrooms at Horace Mann elementary school in New Jersey circa 1969. Last week, I came across an item that took me back to childhood visits to the dentist: black licorice ice cream.

My parents had three children in a row and then a gap of 2 years before the fourth child. Dentist appointments were scheduled at the group rate with each of us taking our turn in the chair. For some reason, my parents rewarded us afterwards with a trip to the ice cream parlor. Have you tried to lick an ice cream cone with a fully Novacained mouth? If not, try it sometime and share your photos with me. Now picture 4 children under the age of 10 trying to demolish a double-scoop cone. We may never know if my parents were a tad sadistic or simply in need of comic relief.

Snelgrove Ice Cream parlor in Sugar House, Utah. Photo credit: Flckr/Clint Gardner

Snelgrove Ice Cream parlor in Sugar House, Utah. Photo credit: Flckr/Clint Gardner



Anyhoo, Mom and Dad would take us to Snelgrove’s Ice Cream parlor in Sugarhouse, Utah and allow us to order our favorite flavors. My favorite was black licorice. From that point on, after moving away from Utah and whenever I had occasion to visit various ice cream stands, I would always search for black licorice. Let’s be clear: the color of this delicacy is black. Some posers have sold it as aqua blue or pale grey. It must be black as in “black licorice”. Our visits to Snelgrove’s ended with the lower halves of our faces coated with ice cream. I often looked like Blackbeard.

My children and husband have become part of the search team for the elusive dessert. They’ve joined the team because they care about me and want me to shut up about licorice ice cream, not because they like the flavor because they don’t.

So last week, I was strolling up the frozen foods aisle with my daughter when she turned to me, smiled and said, “Look Mom, there’s a new brand of ice cream.”

People, spread the word. Broulim’s in Driggs, Idaho is now carrying Red Button Vintage Creamery in a selection of flavors including BLACK LICORICE! My cries of delight forced my daughter to run and hide in the toothpaste aisle. Waiting impatiently at the check-out register, the couple ahead of me noticed my carton of BLACK LICORICE ice cream and commented softly to each other about the flavor.

“And it’s black, not bright blue! I’ve been waiting all my life for this!” I exclaimed to them both, with an undertone of hysteria. They looked deeply into my eyes, decided that I was a benign lunatic, and assured me that they would sure check out the ice cream aisle the next time they came to Broulim’s.

My first spoonful took me back to Snelgrove’s, closed for almost a decade now. Memories of our family standing in front of the long counter to order, then seated around the circular booth, smashing cones onto our chins and cheeks. It was heavenly.

What sensory mode takes you back in time? Share the scent, taste, feel, sound or sight that flies you right to a certain moment. And then go check out the ice cream selection at Broulim’s. More

Rest Assured: My unplanned ‘car camping’ experience in Wyoming

By Ann Loyola It was surprising. It wasn’t the biggest surprise I’d had that day, but I admit I didn’t think my camera accessory bag would end up being a passable pillow, even with my jeans rolled around it for padding.  The 4-inch ledge between my car’s folded backseat and the rear floor mat presented the biggest problem while I snuggled down for a good night’s sleep in the back of my Honda but I resolved that by stuffing some canvas grocery totes under my knees.  Heck, I never remember to bring the bags inside the store with me but thank goodness I carry them around in my car. The biggest surprise I’d had that day – two Fridays ago to be exact – was discovering that Laramie, Wyo. is such a busy, happenin’ kind of town that every single blasted hotel/motel/B&B was full. I drove into town at 9 p.m., exhausted after 7 hours of driving but looking forward to picking up my daughter from a three-week camp held at the University of Wyoming. Car emergency kit infographicI called every hotel front desk. I shuffled into the lobby of several lodges only to hear bad news. By 10:45 p.m., I had to accept reality and began making a bed in the back of the car. I didn’t have a coat. Didn’t bring a blanket. I dug around my suitcase and draped clothing over myself. At 3 a.m., I woke up shivering and had to leave my spot in the Fairfield Inn parking lot to drive to the nearest truck stop. I bought a huge “I Heart Wyoming” hoodie, used the potty, and headed back. I considered staying in the truck stop parking lot but vaguely recalled hearing something negative about women hanging out in cars at truck stops. When I showed up at my daughter’s dorm (and yes, I tried to get permission to sneak into the dorm for the night), I was red-eyed, gritty haired and possibly smelly. Something had bitten the side of my face and my ankle during the night. I had managed to brush my teeth and scrub my face at the truck stop but that was as far as I could go without arousing fear among the other female patrons. So I was partially presentable as I met the other parents, mingled during a nice luncheon and then finally hit the road home. Sleep is important. Our bodies need ample rest. Our brains function better with the right amount of sleep. More studies are proving that consistent REM-involved sleep can lead to better all-around wellness. That’s why the moral of this story is worth sharing: If you ever have the slightest inkling that you may need to stay overnight in Laramie, Wyo., make a reservation well in advance. Do you have any travel stories like this to share? I’d love to hear them in the comments below! More

Good Choice, Bad Choice: There’s no Escape

Good Choice, Bad Choice: There’s no Escape
We can all remember our first car. Not the family station wagon. Not the hand-me-down from big brother that smelled like musky gym clothes. I’m talking about the first car that was entirely yours, even if it was used or “pre-owned” as car dealerships like to say.
"1984-1985 Honda Civic hatchback -- 01-07-2012" by IFCAR - Own work. Licensed under Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons - http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:1984-1985_Honda_Civic_hatchback_--_01-07-2012.jpg#/media/File:1984-1985_Honda_Civic_hatchback_--_01-07-2012.jpg

A mid-1980s Honda Civic via WikiCommons

I was 26 when I purchased my very own brand new car. It was a 1986 Honda Civic wagon and I loved it. No air conditioner, no frills, vinyl seats and 48 mpg. Those were the days. I would drive from Salt Lake to Jackson Hole and back on one tank of gas. I would drive to San Diego, stopping every 40 miles to douse myself at the rest-stop water fountains during those 102-degree desert stretches, then drive soaked from head to foot with the windows down. Now that was air conditioning. Imagine my excitement when I bought a new Ford Escape Limited in 2004. It was the second time in my life I’d bought a brand new car rather than used pre-owned. I knew the saying that once you drive it off the showroom floor, the car’s value drops 99%. I didn’t care. I was in fact overly proud of the purchase. As the old saying goes, pride goeth before a fall.
Ann's Ford Escape

The Ford Escape AKA Mouse Mobile

The Escape was only two days old when I drove my two toddlers to the grocery store. Somehow, an entire jug of milk was spilled between the seats during a backseat conspiracy to search the grocery bags for cookies. I spent 2 hours scrubbing, spraying, rubbing and generally assaulting the area with cleansers. The smell of sour milk never left the vehicle. It was an omen. One after another, horrible things happened in the Escape. A completely potty-trained child thoroughly wet his pants. Dogs threw up. A cat leaped onto my lap and peed while I was driving. Moldering carrots were found under the passenger seat. A slice of pizza worked its way into the spare tire well and grew fabulous green feathers. Just before the Plague of Rodents commenced, I had what I thought was the capper to all of this evil. While driving my son’s friend home from a playdate, the cherub told me from the backseat that he needed to go number two. I asked him if I should pull over or if he could hold it until the upcoming gas station. He felt that he could wait. Two seconds later, he said “oh no” and then the fun began. My son caught a whiff and immediately vomited. Twice. I rolled down the windows. I opened the sunroof. I looked back to assess the damage and was struck by a force stronger than a tidal wave. We drove the rest of the way with our heads out the windows, tears streaming down our cheeks. I was triple charged for the car detailing. Then came the Plague. It started with a few tiny droppings here and there on the car mats. I’d set a trap inside my car, catch a mouse and go on about my business. Then I noticed more droppings. I worked up to 4 traps placed at night and 4 mice in traps in the morning. I detailed. I vacuumed. I squirted VO5 hairspray. I tried sonic sound waves. I put bars of Irish Spring under the seats. The mice ate them. Finally, I removed all of the interior side panels, trying to find the rodent welcome mat. Caches of seeds, dog kibble and fluffy mouse nests poured from every possible crevice. Entire generations of field mice had wandered about, given birth, raised families and died in my car. I admitted defeat and felt grateful that no one in our family had been struck with Hantavirus.  Accursed vehicle. Stephen King could write a book about it. The Mousemobile found a new home with a family that apparently does not have a battalion of mice seeking a motel on wheels. I gave full disclosure prior to handing over the keys. Buh bye. Guess what I’m driving now? A used Honda Civic wagon. With air conditioning. More

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