In Jeff’s family, it was mostly chocolate or vanilla, once in a while strawberry. Once at Aunt Yetta’s, Jeff had tasted butter-pecan, and he had coffee ice cream a few times at grandma's.

One day, Jeff saw a big kid licking a cone with green ice cream. He wondered what it was, and a week later when he saw green ice cream again, he asked Rifka, his sister.

“It’s pistachio,” she told him.

Jeff did not mention it again, but he thought about it. He wanted pistachio ice cream, but when his father took them to the store that Sunday for a treat, Jeff asked for chocolate.

When Jeff’s family first moved to New York, Rifka taught him to say, “chawklit,” which really sounded funny to him. He loved chocolate, but still wished he could taste pistachio.

But it never occurred to Jeff to tell his dad that he wanted pistachio. Jeff knew that Jewish people do not eat certain things that other people eat, and he just figured that pistachio ice cream is one of them.

Jeff’s father handed him and Rifka their dixie cups, Jeff carefully opened his to see which baseball player’s picture would be on the inside of the cover.

Through the filmy paper covering, the picture looked blurred. Carefully, not to miss any, Jeff licked off the ice cream, and pealed away the film. He did not throw it on the ground... not when he was with his dad.

“Dad,” he said, “Which baseball player is this?” handing his father the dixie cup top.

“Pee Wee Reese!”

That name was familiar. “He’s a Dodger, ain’t he dad?”

“Ain’t is not in the dictionary, Jeff. ‘Isn’t he.’ Now say it right.”

“Isn’t he, dad? Pee Wee’s a Dodger, right dad?”

“That’s right,” said his father. “He lead the League this year for runs scored.”

Jeff pealed open the thin paper around the wooden spoon, almost forgetting not to throw it on the ground. He wondered why the spoon broadened out on both ends symmetrically, when you only need to eat from one end.

If front of Katz’s drug store was a bench and a large, wire mesh trash can where Jeff could deposit the wrappings. They sat down. Silently, Rifka ate her strawberry dixie cup.

“A girl’s flavor,” thought Jeff. He began on his chocolate dixie cup.

Jeff began by lightly skimming a circle around the edge, eating slowly. Jeff allowed the hot sun to melt his chocolate ice cream, diligently advancing his spoon like a miniature bulldozer, artfully capturing just the right mixture of half melted ice cream with the still firm ice cream next to it.

When he had finished the prep work along the top, Jeff then began serious excavation, advancing expeditiously until he got near the bottom;; now it was time to scrape. During the entire procedure, Jeff’s focus was single-minded: The ice cream was all there was, and it was sufficient.

* * *
In Jeff’s family, ice cream was mostly a Sunday treat, but one Wednesday, Jeff had ice cream unexpectedly.

One of Jeff’s best friends was Petey. Petey’s family was among the few non-Jewish families living in the Beach Haven Apartments. Petey was a year older than Jeff. Jeff lived in Apt. 2H, Petey in Apt. 3H. They could signal each other with a code which they beat on the pipe.

Petey’s other best friend was Harry Migdal, also a year older. Harry’s passion was his electric train set, which kept him and visiting friends busy for hours. Jeff liked Harry and looked up to him. But, perhaps because Petey was the only Puerto Rice kid Jeff knew, Jeff found him fascinating.

Petey spoke Spanish with his family, and he told Jeff about the magical land of Puerto Rice where the sky is full of colorful kites, and everything is beautiful.

Petey’s parents seemed different than any other parents Jeff knew. Petey’s father was even in the Army, away most of the time. This week Petey’s dad had come home, wearing his uniform. Jeff was in awe of him. He had a powerful presence, which was almost foreboding.

That afternoon Jeff and Petey were outside playing, when Petey’s dad called from the window.

“Why don’t you and your friend get some candy? I’ll wrap the money up and throw it down.”

Petey picked up the little package, removed the rubber band which was holding the torn-out notebook paper around the money, and Jeff saw that there were two dimes. Candy only costs 5 cents! Was Jeff going to get one of the dimes?!!

Petey started to pocket the money. Disappointed, Jeff started to realize that he had misunderstood. It was, after all, too good to be true... a dime!

“Petey!” came the deep, commanding tone from the third floor, “Give Jeff his dime!”

On the way to the store, Petey said, “I’m going to get an Almond Joy,” what are you going to get?” Almond Joy was a double-sized candy bar, a real treat costing twice as much as a regular-sized Hersey’s Bar.

“Do you promise you won’t tell my mother?” asked Jeff.

“Why not? What are you going to get?”

“It’s something I’m not allowed to have.”

“What is it?” asked Petey.

Now Jeff was not sure he should have mentioned it. “It’s pistachio.. pistachio ice cream.”

“You're not allowed to eat pistachio?” in a puzzled tone. “Why?”

Jeff was not sure why Jewish people can’t eat pistachio. He grasped for a reason.

“Because it’s green,” he answered.

When they got to the store, Petey bought his Almond Joy, and sat on the counter stool next to Jeff.

Tall Mr. Bigelow in his white apron leaned forward smiling: “What’ll it be?” he asked.

“Ah, ah, ah, I’ll h’ h’ have a pistachio ice cream,” Jeff stammered.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Mr. Bigelow. “We’re out of pistachio.” But before Jeff could feel disappointed, he quickly added: “But I have a flavor which is just like pistachio. It’s called, ‘mint.’ You can taste some, and only buy it if you like it.”

“OK,” said Jeff, and the next moment Mr. Bigelow was holding out a long thin spoon with tantalizingly green ice cream at the end. He held it toward Jeff’s mouth. Jeff tasted it. It was delicious!

“Yes,” said Jeff, “It tastes just like pistachio! I’d like a bowl!

After they left the store, Petey said: “I’m going to tell your mother.”

“But, Petey, you promised!”

“I promised that I wouldn’t tell if you ate pistachio. But that was a different kind of pistachio, it wasn’t really pistachio. I promised not to tell if you ate pistachio, but I’m going to tell that you ate green ice cream.”


Story by Steven K-Brooks