I stare down the milkshake, a muddy pink in its styrofoam cup. I picture the gelatinous strawberry slices that we scooped into it, embalmed in vermillion syrup, dredged from a Gordon Food Services tin. I shiver.
It’s SERVE week at church, and my friend James and I have just finished making milkshakes for forty rowdy high schoolers. Normally we’d be making our own shakes at this point—but in a near-Biblical twist, the last of the ice cream just barely filled the last kid’s cup. This strawberry shake on the counter is a reject, abandoned after its requester disclosed a gluten allergy and we cleaned off the Oreo-spattered spinner and made another one.
It’s all we have. Now, when it comes to dessert, I’m a chocolate-loving girl through and through. I don’t mess with that fake fruit stuff. But it’s the last night of SERVE week, and I am depleted—emotionally, spiritually, physically. I need ice cream. I need to feel the Lord’s providence through a rich, sugary dopamine rush. We’ve already added Oreos and chocolate to this strawberry shake. It can’t be that bad…right?
I pour the shake into two cups (one for me, one for James). I stir more spoonfuls of Oreos into mine. Tentatively, I take a sip.
Wow! It tastes like real strawberries (well, almost). Nothing like the grocery store strawberry ice creams of my childhood. Revived, I pound my cup before James has even finished wiping the counter.
This experience is one of many that I’ve had this summer of drifting from my typical ice cream preferences. As mentioned previously, I’ve historically been a staunch chocolate-maxxer. Michigan Pothole, chocolate brownie, chocolate Moose Tracks, chocolate oreo. Or just plain chocolate. Maybe mint/coffee/coconut chocolate chip, if I’m feeling something lighter.
But this summer, I’ve ordered rainbow sherbet. I bought a box of orange creamsicle bars from Aldi. I’ve gotten Chick-Fil-A’s frosted lemonade more times than their chocolate oreo milkshake. I even tried a strawberry chocolate flurry after my strawberry milkshake at SERVE. And I enjoyed all of them.
This feels, weirdly, like self-betrayal. You wouldn’t think that trying new ice cream flavors would be such a big deal. But it feels like a shift in identity—from a gung-ho chocolate-lover to someone…less principled? Less predictable? It’s hard to say. How will I know who I am? my gut whispers as I order the key lime ice cream. What if I regret trying something new?
I try to tell myself that regret and failure are two different things. That I am more than my dessert orders. That there’ll be more ice cream runs. I tell myself that sometimes it’s okay to take a chance on the unknown, to acknowledge that something new sounds good instead of reflexively choosing what I’ve always chosen.
And I tell myself that no matter what, I don’t have to try spumoni. Or rum raisin. Those can wait till the next decade.
Eleanor Lee (‘23) graduated from Calvin with degrees in computer science and writing. She grew up in South Carolina but currently lives in Grand Rapids, Michigan. She loves coffee, laughing, and bringing emojis to the workplace.
