As an ice cream girl, I sometimes find due cause to return to my past, when a younger, less experienced woman was the one making mountains of soft serve and scooping out cones by the tub. Can you see where I'm going with this? This is one of those times.
It was my second shift at my new job scooping ice cream. I'd mastered the basics of the sizes and scooping cones from the hard ice cream. I was feeling cool, confident, and collected when a customer ordered a sundae.
I'd never one for a customer before. Still, I mustered the wisdom to accumulate the whipped cream, nuts and soft serve. I made the swirl of ice cream, then went to the fridge to find the cherries. I picked off the red container where I was shown that it was when I was trained and brought it back to the counter. I made a perfect dollop of whipped cream, and opened the container to place a cherry on top.
But lo and behold, the container was not full of cherries. In fact, it was full of red sauce with mushed up remains distributed throughout.
My heart caught in my throat. What happened to these cherries? Silently, I found a spoon and picked through the sauce with it, looking for a bright, plump cherry to add to the sundae that was otherwise finished.
When I saw that it was fruitless, I called Jenn over, interrupting her discussion with a customer. "What happened to the cherries?" I whispered.
She leaned in to peer into the box, then went back to the fridge. She removed a second red container and opened it to reveal a plethora of cherries. "You had the strawberry sauce," she carefully informed me.
The customer shall never know.
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