Ice Cream Challenge #001: Basic Bear

Smoke and Soul had finally gone quiet. Not closed quiet. Restaurant quiet. The kind that comes after the last table has wandered upstairs, the dishwasher has stopped arguing with gravity, and thirty-eight people have apparently decided that burnt-ends shepherd’s pie is something they have always desperately needed. At the prep counter, Senty Sterling Martindale Brooks removed his apron.

“Thirty-eight orders. We normally sell twelve. I would like whoever started that rumor to know that I respect their influence and resent them personally.”

He folded the apron beside the cutting board and started the final walk through the kitchen. Burners off. Smoker settled. Walk-in closed. A note was taped to the little freezer beneath the prep counter. Senty peeled it free and held it under the light.

“Sentyusha. You are anything but a basic bear. However, this one has your name on it. Pumpkin spice. See what you think. Also, hide it from Glorp if you want anything left by morning. B.”

“He brings me something called Basic Bear, then leaves written assurance that I am not basic. This is either affection or extremely targeted psychological warfare.”

Inside the freezer sat a peach-orange container with a yellow lid and a black bear on the label. Senty brought it to the counter and propped Brent’s note against the salt crock. There was still a smear of mashed potato on his wrist. He washed it off before reaching for a spoon.

“Ice Cream for Bears. Well. At least we have established the intended demographic. Pumpkin Spice French Ice Cream. Milk, cream, raw honey, pumpkin, skim milk, egg yolk, cinnamon, nutmeg, ginger, and allspice. All right. Let’s see who’s in charge.”

“Pumpkin ice cream can go wrong in several very enthusiastic directions. Too much cinnamon and you’re eating a candle. Too much nutmeg and Thanksgiving has become punitive. Too sweet and the pumpkin disappears completely. I like pumpkin. I would prefer it attended its own event.”

He spooned a little into a bowl, returned the container to the freezer, and pulled the stool closer with one foot. Across the kitchen, the dishwasher clicked once. Senty waited to see whether it had anything further to contribute, then lifted the first spoonful.

“Oh. Pumpkin pie filling. That’s where we’re going. The soft middle of the pie, after somebody else has done all the work. I respect a dessert that understands what time it is.”

The second spoonful went more slowly. His shoulders settled, and he rested one elbow on the counter. He had spent the evening tasting gravy, checking potatoes, and making sure every plate left the kitchen warm. For once, the little bowl in front of him wasn’t waiting to go anywhere.

“Smooth, too. That matters. I want pumpkin ice cream to feel like dessert. I don’t want to spend the next ten minutes congratulating it on its intentions.”

On the third spoonful, Senty paused with the spoon still in his paw. He glanced at the label again, found the word he was looking for, and gave a small nod. The spices had begun to make their introductions.

“There’s the allspice. You are certainly here, my friend. I can see that being a little much for some people. It’s the part I’d turn down a touch. I want the spice to pull up a chair. I don’t necessarily want it moving its furniture in.”

“Still, I’d rather know what a pumpkin dessert is trying to do than eat something vaguely beige and be asked to imagine a hayride.”

He turned the bowl a quarter turn and gathered the fourth spoonful from the side. Upstairs, someone moved a chair, then the building grew quiet again. Senty looked at Brent’s note while he tasted, the corner of the paper curling gently away from the salt crock.

“The sweetness is behaving itself. That’s what keeps this working for me. Pumpkin, cream, a generous opinion about spice. It doesn’t need another layer of sweetness shouting over the whole thing.”

There was one spoonful left. Senty drew it together carefully, taking his time over a task that did not require taking his time. When the bowl was empty, he looked toward the freezer. Then he looked back at the bowl, as though it might be persuaded.

“So. Basic Bear. Smooth, properly pumpkin-pie-minded, and sweet enough without getting carried away. The allspice has a firm handshake; if you prefer your pumpkin gently spiced, that may be your sticking point. But if the filling is your favorite part of the pie, I understand the enthusiasm. I would have another bowl.”

“And if pumpkin spice makes you happy, enjoy it. I have cooked all evening. I am perfectly willing to be comforted by a squash.”

He turned Brent’s note over and found a pencil in the drawer. Before writing, he opened the freezer once more and moved the container behind a bag of frozen okra. It was not an elegant hiding place. It was, however, a vegetable Glorp had described as unnecessarily complicated.

“B. A very respectable little pumpkin pie in a fur coat. I’d have a quiet word with the allspice, but I’m keeping the rest. Behind the frozen okra. Don’t tell our cousin. Love, SSMB.”

Somewhere beyond the kitchen, a floorboard creaked. Senty held still, one paw resting on the note. The dining room was dark. From the other side of the doorway came the unmistakable little clink of a spoon touching a bowl.

“Glorp?”

No answer came. Senty folded the note, tucked it into his apron pocket, and slid down from the stool. He had been in this family long enough to know when silence was carrying cutlery.

“Goodnight, everybody.”

“Actually, one moment. I’m moving it again.”

Senty’s review is a fictional tasting inspired by published customer reviews. Porchlandia is not affiliated with or sponsored by Ice Cream for Bears.