My father was a HUGE icecream fan! I mean HUGE!
One problem, though. My mother never allowed him to eat any unless there was some very special occasion.Yes, you read that 100% percent correctly. My mother quite literally forbade my father, an adult, to eat ice cream.
Whenever my mother took off for a day or two, my father would rush out to get a tub of his favorite ice cream (stracciatella, if you want to know). Then he would eat the whole thing before she got home. If he couldn’t finish it, he would feed the left-overs to his dog (a lovely black labrador).
The ice cream definitely needed to stay a secret, though. So the evidence had be destroyed. He’d put the packaging outside in a trashcan so that my mother wouldn’t know about his “indiscretion”.
For my father, better than a tub of ice cream was ice cream from the award-winning ice cream parlor in town. In the summer, he’d always look for someone to go there with him. And when he did manage to convince someone to join him, it would be a perfect excuse not to have just a cone, but to indulge in an ice cream coupe. It’d also be a great way of introducing a co-conspirator that he could blame if my mother found out.
It’s really sad, but my father was always looking for non-confrontational ways to deal with my mother’s toxic demands.