Hand dipped milkshakes
Not used to taking gas pumps, half turned to see if it weren't Jimmy Kitka from the old Kayak speaking directly into my ear.
Rich baritone with that ever so slight hint of an accent that one associates with west coast indigenous people, a kind of lilt in their tongue that is both unmistakable and tough to describe. Funny how sounds will often bring our minds to unexpected places in the same way a random smell often evokes the most vivid sorts of recollections.
Speaking from the heart, Jimmy invited outside gas customers to come on into the smoke shop where, in addition to inexpensive cigarettes, a tantalizing variety of treats and snacks awaited the hungry traveler. "Real ice cream milkshakes," caught my imagination.
Good milk shakes are a rare treat in this life. Soda fountain style, couple rows of ice cream tubs in an open topped freezer, choose your flavor. Chrome polished flavor well lids, industrial green mixers singing, fill your glass twice from the pitcher sized metal mixing container.
Jimmie's voice sounded sincere, and he never lied about anything before. I'm imagining that maybe the tribe put in an old style soda fountain in their new gas station - smoke shop complex. The possibility that the term real ice cream may not mean the same thing as a hand dipped milk shake made by a soda jerk for whom these frosty confections are high art. But one sometimes lives on dreams.
Rolling down the ramp into the north bound lanes of I-5 my mind could see the whole setup. Slightly plump, dark haired young woman working behind the counter, carefully making sundaes and milk shakes for a few hungry customers milling around the shop. Next week when I stop off for gas I'm going inside and order me up one of those wonderful shakes. Cant wait.
Didn't think of it at the time, but the image of the old school soda fountain that came so easily to mind turned out to be a riff on a place where I had the best milk shake of my entire life.
Ground floor cafe in an old hotel along the main street in Forks, countless rain forest winters had passed since a paint brush touched the clapboard siding. Row of chrome and red Naugahyde stools, local lumber yard advertised in the neon lit clock hanging on the wall over a beautiful classic soda fountain setup.
Greydon and Bob had been there a time or two before, waxed poetic about the fresh fruit and berry shakes they got in the place. The three of us were the only customers at eleven on a Wednesday morning.
Looked like a family run business. Larger round table dominated the back of the room. Whiskey voice mom, big woman. Middle aged gent at her side, logging country wiry, high voice easy chuckle, several day stubble. Three or four daughters, all somewhere between twenty and forty depending on the light, engaged in the kinds of conversation one hears and forgets as soon as the echos of voices die back in the room.
Except for the family finishing their late breakfast, Graydon and Bob and I were the only customers in the place. One of the young woman silently stepped around to take our orders. Dark hair, on the plump side, colorful mu mu style dress. I found myself transfixed at the way she constructed those three shakes. Grace of movement as if she were dancing the pas de deux from Swan Lake, each step in the process taken with an almost loving deliberation.
No, I did not make up the sensuality of the experience after hearing that the daughters were almost certainly sex workers, like the old building, a hold over from pre-WWII years when most small towns supported a whore house or two. If my buddies had an inkling about the night business in that place they never said, thought never occurred to me; could be bull. I remain convened that for that woman, on that morning, those three milk shakes came close to perfection out of a sense of dedication to her culinary art.
I had wild black berry in vanilla ice cream. Best shake of my life.
Fantasy about the Angel of the Winds smoke shop soda fountain evaporated in the glare of their milk shake dispenser. Lit up like a pin ball machine, shiny new, self serve prepackaged cups of what appeared to be soft serve ice cream from which removed the sealed top and placed in a little chamber for mixing. Push button for texture, pay a pimply faced teen-age at the register and head on home with one less dream.
Jimmy didn't lie, the ingredients in the prepackaged cups probably meet some legal definition for ice cream, but it wasn't quite what I had in mind.
Rich baritone with that ever so slight hint of an accent that one associates with west coast indigenous people, a kind of lilt in their tongue that is both unmistakable and tough to describe. Funny how sounds will often bring our minds to unexpected places in the same way a random smell often evokes the most vivid sorts of recollections.
Speaking from the heart, Jimmy invited outside gas customers to come on into the smoke shop where, in addition to inexpensive cigarettes, a tantalizing variety of treats and snacks awaited the hungry traveler. "Real ice cream milkshakes," caught my imagination.
Good milk shakes are a rare treat in this life. Soda fountain style, couple rows of ice cream tubs in an open topped freezer, choose your flavor. Chrome polished flavor well lids, industrial green mixers singing, fill your glass twice from the pitcher sized metal mixing container.
Jimmie's voice sounded sincere, and he never lied about anything before. I'm imagining that maybe the tribe put in an old style soda fountain in their new gas station - smoke shop complex. The possibility that the term real ice cream may not mean the same thing as a hand dipped milk shake made by a soda jerk for whom these frosty confections are high art. But one sometimes lives on dreams.
Rolling down the ramp into the north bound lanes of I-5 my mind could see the whole setup. Slightly plump, dark haired young woman working behind the counter, carefully making sundaes and milk shakes for a few hungry customers milling around the shop. Next week when I stop off for gas I'm going inside and order me up one of those wonderful shakes. Cant wait.
Didn't think of it at the time, but the image of the old school soda fountain that came so easily to mind turned out to be a riff on a place where I had the best milk shake of my entire life.
Ground floor cafe in an old hotel along the main street in Forks, countless rain forest winters had passed since a paint brush touched the clapboard siding. Row of chrome and red Naugahyde stools, local lumber yard advertised in the neon lit clock hanging on the wall over a beautiful classic soda fountain setup.
Greydon and Bob had been there a time or two before, waxed poetic about the fresh fruit and berry shakes they got in the place. The three of us were the only customers at eleven on a Wednesday morning.
Looked like a family run business. Larger round table dominated the back of the room. Whiskey voice mom, big woman. Middle aged gent at her side, logging country wiry, high voice easy chuckle, several day stubble. Three or four daughters, all somewhere between twenty and forty depending on the light, engaged in the kinds of conversation one hears and forgets as soon as the echos of voices die back in the room.
Except for the family finishing their late breakfast, Graydon and Bob and I were the only customers in the place. One of the young woman silently stepped around to take our orders. Dark hair, on the plump side, colorful mu mu style dress. I found myself transfixed at the way she constructed those three shakes. Grace of movement as if she were dancing the pas de deux from Swan Lake, each step in the process taken with an almost loving deliberation.
No, I did not make up the sensuality of the experience after hearing that the daughters were almost certainly sex workers, like the old building, a hold over from pre-WWII years when most small towns supported a whore house or two. If my buddies had an inkling about the night business in that place they never said, thought never occurred to me; could be bull. I remain convened that for that woman, on that morning, those three milk shakes came close to perfection out of a sense of dedication to her culinary art.
I had wild black berry in vanilla ice cream. Best shake of my life.
Fantasy about the Angel of the Winds smoke shop soda fountain evaporated in the glare of their milk shake dispenser. Lit up like a pin ball machine, shiny new, self serve prepackaged cups of what appeared to be soft serve ice cream from which removed the sealed top and placed in a little chamber for mixing. Push button for texture, pay a pimply faced teen-age at the register and head on home with one less dream.
Jimmy didn't lie, the ingredients in the prepackaged cups probably meet some legal definition for ice cream, but it wasn't quite what I had in mind.
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