The circle of life

Serving ice cream is a pretty cut and dry job. There are only so many ways you can scoop a cone or mix a storm. It does happen, however, on a rare occasion, that an opportunity presents itself to test the practice of serving ice cream. On these days, I am never bored.

It happened last night. I was making a vanilla soft serve cone, winding the creamy ice cream around and around the tan coloured cone. Unfortunately, I turned my head at the call of a coworker and the cone got off to a slanted beginning. Abandoning the effort, I stuck it in a bowl and grabbed another cone to work with.

Several minutes later, when all the customers were gone, I turned back to the counter where I had left the cone of soft serve. There was nothing. I ran around to the other side. Still nothing. It was then that I took the opportunity to jog to the back where Macy, my coworker, was washing tubs. "Did you see that cone of soft serve that I put on the counter?" I asked with as much patience as I could muster. (I really, really like the soft serve.)

Immediately, she looked sheepish. "Yes," she said, "I threw it out a while ago."

At first, I'll admit, I was disappointed. Soon, however, I remembered that I live in the land of endless confectionary. I solved the problem my grabbing a new cone and making my own creation.

I had just finished off my somewhat large cone of soft serve when another woman came into the store. She also ordered a small vanilla soft serve. Imagine my chagrin when once again, I let it slip too far to the left and it too was ruined. Into the bowl it went, and over to get another cone at the dispensary went I.

When the woman was gone, I looked down into the bowl of melting, yet inviting soft serve. I was full and frankly avoiding a sugar rush. I could not eat another one. Still, the garbage is not a fit place for soft serve that is not rotting or liquified. I must save this cone, I thought.

And save it I did. "Hey, Macy, come here," I called, "I'm about to do an experiment!"

Macy came running around the corner just in time to see me grab the lid of the soft serve decanter from the top of the machine. I looked inside to see the liquid, vanilla soft serve churning around, waiting for its time to be thrust out into the open bowels of a cone. There was nothing for it; I grabbed the ruined cone from the bowl in my hand and shook it around above the machine until the mass of ice cream wiggled itself free. With a distinct plop and a slight splash in Macy's direction, the ice cream was returned to its origin. Like the circle of life. I looked on in pride; the soft serve is too good to go.