Thursday Night in the Gather Writing Essential: Ice Cream Socials and Tattooed Lovers

Different foods push memory to my surface. Polish dumplings filled with mashed potatoes and garlic remind me of my gramma. Cinnamon bread means Mom. And ice cream, oh ice cream pulls me into the start of summer, the days my boys replace school books with the gentle arc of my backyard sprinkler.

The parents seemed so young at the end of school ice cream social. One couple had more tattoos than skin, and they sat under a Eucalyptus tree with paper bowls of ice cream, watching their daughter chase boys. I stared at the blue patterns on their entwined arms: a Chinese fish, rings of plumeria flowers, a woman's face framed with flowing dark hair.

I remember being young like that. I'm like the old mothers now. We chat among ourselves, woman to woman. We don't snuggle with men on the schoolyard. We talk about PTA meetings and laundry stains. I mentioned my Avon business and passed out white business cards printed with a photo of lipsticks in a bouquet. I felt out of sync with these women, even though they were kind and took my cards and told me they would call to order something.

I wished I was there with a young man in tattooed skin, his arms around my waist as I laughed, whispering in his ear. "Never forget this!" I wanted to yell this to the young parents, to tell them to breath the grass and sky and ice cream and remember.

Years ago I was young like that, and oh so restless. I dropped out of college mid-semester and ran away to Puget Sound with my boyfriend, got pregnant, got married. I found myself managing a Knights of Columbus trailer park on Black Lake, far from the place I called home, with a semester full of F's on my permanent record and a baby on my hip. I was nineteen years old.

I fell in love with my young husband's red hair and sense of humor. He was four years older, and the son of an Air Force survivalist trainer. He could fix anything that was broken. He loved me because I was so different than any of his previous girlfriends. And I liked sex. We didn't start as friends, became immediate lovers, and nothing else seemed to matter. His friends hated me, my gypsy style of dress, my loud hyena laugh, my way of discussing every subject to death. My friends hated him, the way he would emotionally withdraw, his silly puns, his love for dumb movies. Everyone pointed out we had nothing in common, but we rolled our eyes as countless other young couples have done.

I cooked, I cleaned. I made flies for the fishermen who frequented our campground store. We rode the trailer park paddleboat around the lake every night. I worked as a talking, dancing pig at the state fair. I loved being poor and struggling then. We ate only potatoes and green beans for an entire summer, and picked illicit strawberries at night when the farmer down the road was asleep. We walked the railroad tracks of western Washington in bare feet through the summer and fall. My parents' inevitable disapproval didn't matter to me, life moved forward, and for a time the rumble beneath the surface of my heart seemed to fade like the roll of the cargo trains headed for Seattle in the distance.

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Other Gather members have incredible food memory, too, have shared their love of kneading bread, of cookies gone horribly wrong. Please visit these wonderful writers:

A simple love story, with bread by mona d.

Simply the best story I've read on Gather in a long, long time. Sexy, gorgeous, gentle, and life-changing. Read it now. I mean it. Now. Please leave mona a comment, too. She has been a big part of Gather, but hasn't posted many stories. This is a woman whose path is that of a writer. She doesn't realize it yet. Please tell her to continue, to tell us more stories.

Macaroons by Vivian

What foods will you remember your loved ones by?

Carnations and Molasses Cookies by Susan B.

What happens when a clueless husband is let loose in the kitchen?? Read this and find out!

Where food comes from by Sheila D. 

A children's story about being mindful and aware of how we get good food in our lives.

The Best Birthday Present by Rose W.

A mom's love is channeled through her food. 

Want to participate in next week's Thursday Gather: Writing Essential?

Simply visit the Writing Essential Group and join, then post your story to the group each Thursday! I read EVERY submission!

Next week's theme:

Thursday, August 16
Disaster

Some days just don't go the way you want... in fact, they go South, to Hades. Post a story about the time things got so damn bad that all you could do is laugh, hold on, pray.