Every Saturday afternoon, for the past two months or so, Tabby has scheduled a gelato break. Not only is she finding satisfaction in the creamy vacation that is gelato, she has also become an exacting gelato specialist. We have gone on gelato hunts in San Francisco, and Pismo Beach, and Pasadena, Venice, and Manhattan Beach, and at times we have devolved to Ben and Jerry’s in desperation. We have pretended that Starbucks ice cream is actually something like gelato, and have learned to like Hagen Dazs mint chip when nothing else was available.
Tabby has found no small measure of ice cream satisfaction at Sweet Rose Creamery, where they make a mint ice cream that tastes like a mint-gasm, and a coffee ice cream that is easily as satisfying as an actual cup of coffee. Gelato, however, remains at the center of the cream-and-fat universe for us both. At Spumoni Cafe on Montana Avenue in Brentwood, we can pretend that we’re in Italy. The people there, sensing what is to come, give Tabby a bigger and bigger scoop every time.
There are no pickles in this pickles-and-ice-cream pregnancy post, but I have noticed that the pregnant eater possesses a tremendous sense of focus. Some days she needs fresh squeezed orange juice. Other days she needs pistachios. Some days it’s kale with garlic, on yet other days it’s ‘get that garlic away from me, you madman.’ Through it all, no matter what else has changed, the gold standard has been gelato. I think I know the reason. There is someone else who always comes along with us on these weekend gelato safaris, and that someone else must also be an exacting gelato specialist.