Like the tea shop that makes tasty scones, our local neighborhood ice cream shop has now closed for the duration of stay-at-home orders. They sent out an email during the early afternoon on Wednesday saying that it would be their last day for at least a month. Corin had been asking for ice cream anyway, and, thinking that the shop would want to clear out as much as they could before closing, we ordered as much as our freezer could hold, and Matt picked it up curbside on his way home from work.
It was not a long drive (on nice days, we can walk or ride bikes to this place)- but for whatever reason, the top of each ice cream container was at that in-between point between solid and melty, when your spoon slices into it effortlessly, but it's not liquid yet. I love that point. As we sat around our dining table eating it, I was reminded of the scene from the original Jurassic Park film where John Hammond is stress-eating tubs of ice cream that are melting during the island-wide power outage. He's in shock and denial, talking about an old sales pitch with a flea circus and insisting that next time, Jurassic Park will work flawlessly. He is joined by Dr. Sattler, who is more pragmatic about their immediate problems. She reminds him that people they love are out in the park at that moment: "They're out there...and people are dying." Then, she finally takes a taste of the ice cream, and you can tell from the way it moves on the spoon that it's at that in-between point between solid and melty.
When I first saw Jurassic Park as a middle schooler, I never thought I'd be sitting around a table in a bit of shock, eating ice cream that was melting as both a symbol and a byproduct of catastrophe. But here we are. I think I can safely say that Coronavirus is better than a rampaging T-Rex. At least you can see (and feel) the Rex coming. But Coronavirus does feel strangely comparable to those stealthy, doorknob-opening raptors. Viruses do not hunt, of course, but there is still that anxious feeling they're out there, and you don't know exactly where they are, and they can get in even when you close the door.
But on second thought, you can't defeat a raptor by washing your hands.
It was not a long drive (on nice days, we can walk or ride bikes to this place)- but for whatever reason, the top of each ice cream container was at that in-between point between solid and melty, when your spoon slices into it effortlessly, but it's not liquid yet. I love that point. As we sat around our dining table eating it, I was reminded of the scene from the original Jurassic Park film where John Hammond is stress-eating tubs of ice cream that are melting during the island-wide power outage. He's in shock and denial, talking about an old sales pitch with a flea circus and insisting that next time, Jurassic Park will work flawlessly. He is joined by Dr. Sattler, who is more pragmatic about their immediate problems. She reminds him that people they love are out in the park at that moment: "They're out there...and people are dying." Then, she finally takes a taste of the ice cream, and you can tell from the way it moves on the spoon that it's at that in-between point between solid and melty.
When I first saw Jurassic Park as a middle schooler, I never thought I'd be sitting around a table in a bit of shock, eating ice cream that was melting as both a symbol and a byproduct of catastrophe. But here we are. I think I can safely say that Coronavirus is better than a rampaging T-Rex. At least you can see (and feel) the Rex coming. But Coronavirus does feel strangely comparable to those stealthy, doorknob-opening raptors. Viruses do not hunt, of course, but there is still that anxious feeling they're out there, and you don't know exactly where they are, and they can get in even when you close the door.
But on second thought, you can't defeat a raptor by washing your hands.
Comments
Post a Comment