Slice of Life: Ice Cream Emergency

sliceoflifeIn keeping with my writing for “fun” this summer, I’m trying out the “Slice of Life” challenge. You can read about it more here, but basically you writing about a tiny event — a slice of life — each week on Tuesdays. Then you link up and comment, etc.

I haven’t exactly done that part yet, but . . . I will. Eventually. In the meantime, here’s my slice for this week. 


We have two kinds of Dilly Bars in our town. The regular Dairy Queen ones are the ones you are probably familiar with — a hockey puck of ice milk on a stick, dipped in chocolate. Yum, right?

But we also have Dillies from the other Dairy Queen. The one on Menomonie Street that’s independently owned and doesn’t have to follow the franchise protocol. In other words, the Dairy Queen that’s trapped in time. Their Dillies are softballs, with lumpy, uneven chocolate coating. So heavy, you’re sure that teensy wooden stick can’t possibly hold it up without snapping.

So good. So worth the drive.

Last week my son got one of these other Dillies after the last performance of the play he was in. Naturally, he was thrilled and crunched right in. As he munched, we got in the car and headed home. But it wasn’t long before — “Mom!”

I looked over, and ice cream was streaming down his arm and pouring off his elbow. He tried to catch it with his napkin, but it was already drenched. The Dilly had apparently reached some kind of critical temperature and was in full “sound the alarms” meltdown mode. I sped across the bridge we were on, put my flashers on, and pulled over. He leaped out of the car to deal with his flooding treat away from the upholstery.

It wasn’t a busy road, so cars slowly went around us. But after a few minutes, I heard the roaring vibration of a motorcycle. The motor slowed, and a grizzled face peered into my open window. “Everything okay?” the rider asked in a gruff voice. With a tattooed hand, he pulled out a grimy bandana and swiped it across his sweating brow. “Need some help?”

“Oh!” I smiled sheepishly. “Thank you, but no.” I tilted my head at my son on the sidewalk, who was now performing a sort of juggling/dancing act, trying to keep his dissolving Dilly on the stick. “We were just, um, having kind of . . . an ice cream emergency.”

The rider looked across at my son. Slowly, he nodded. “Ah, yes. I see.” He paused, then jerked his chin at the dripping mess. “Menomonie Street?” he boomed.

My son looked up, mouth too full to answer. He grinned and nodded. A chunk of chocolate hit sidewalk with a plop.

The rider grinned back. “The best!” He shifted his bike back in gear. “Well, I’ll leave you then. Enjoy!”

And with that, he roared off, leaving us to deal with the Dilly disaster. Eventually, my son finished up and got back in the car, but he needed a full change of clothes when he got home.

Even still, he said it was worth every drip.