Ice Cream Houses and Batmobiles

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As I’ve mentioned before, I recently started a new job at a fancy pants restaurant in the tourist-y area of Orlando.  It’s my first restaurant job and I’m basically learning everything by doing everything.  I’m a host/food runner/serving trainee.

If the volume of learning wasn’t daunting enough, I’m now faced with a brand new cast of characters in the co-worker department.  Most (read “all”) don’t yet understand my strangeness.

Exhibit A:  Part of training to be a server involved trying the food that the restaurant serves.  That way, you can describe and recommend dishes to the guests.

Well, the 4 or 5 other trainees and I had just tried the “Chocolate Uprising.”  That’s two cinnamon chocolate brownies forming a sandwich around some vanilla bean ice cream.  The whole damn thing is topped with dark chocolate walnut fudge and served over a bed of caramel and chocolate sauce.  I know what you’re thinking…yes, there is a dinosaur-sized dollop of whipped cream on top.  Oh and don’t forget the shaved chocolate garnish.

My review:  “I want to build my house out of this.”

My peer’s reviews:  “Wait, what the hell did that guy just say?”

Readers, I’m not sure if you’ve ever found yourselves surrounded by people who think that building a house out of ice cream is a ridiculous idea or not.  It’s not something I would wish on my worst enemies.

“It would melt.”

“We live in Florida.”

“That would be a sticky mess.”

For starters, who in their right mind would build an entire house out of ice cream in Florida?  Construction would begin somewhere freezer-like, duh.  Think Alaska, or Siberia, or something.

Then there’s the explicit temporality of a house made of ice cream.  It’s not a real estate investment.  You don’t take out a 30 year mortgage on an ice cream house.  You eat that SOB.  Not all in one day (well, hopefully not), just over a couple of months or something.  Invite friends.  Ice Cream House Party at my place this Sundae.  BYO Whipped Cream.

I suppose it’s a miracle I’ve made it this long without ending up in some witch’s oven or something.

There are moments that I’ve shared with people that “get me” that really stand out when I find myself surrounded by “realistic” people.  My closest friends not only understand exactly what I mean when I say something this ridiculous, but they go along with it and encourage it.  As I shut up and simmered in my uncomfortable skin under the weight of their judging stares, I could only appreciate the people in my life that not only reserve judgement of my lunacy, but actually love it.

Here’s what one of them would have said:

“What would the frame of the ice cream house be made out of?”

To which I would have responded:  “Probably something sturdy and capable of holding up ice cream, like waffle cone.”

It could have gotten even better from there, but not with the lot at this table.

Exhibit B:  A conversation about people building houses out of strange things (freight containers, 747s, and dumpsters to be more specific) soon evolved into anecdotes of eccentric rich people.

Me:  “Forget the strange houses, if I was rich, I would just be Batman.  End of story.”

Silence.  Strange looks.

As if every right-minded person on the planet hasn’t wanted a Batmobile at some point in their life.  I don’t know if I’m getting too old to say such awesome things or what the deal is, but these people need to get on my level.

Note:  Things have improved dramatically after these first gaffes.  I think I just opened up a can of crazy at a somewhat inappropriate time.  I can’t help it.  I think it would be awesome to live in a house made of ice cream and I don’t care who knows it.

 

 

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