Hello. Down here. Yes, it is I down here who is speaking while you tamper with my saturation. I’m your ice cream, and I refuse to be objectified as a visual receipt of your societal relevance so long as pastel brick walls and omniscient wrists isolate me from humanity.
Forgive the naiveté of my kin, for I know my own worth as a dessert icon based on the history of my heritage — I’ve been around the block more times than my sugar content might suggest. We creams have danced through the summer of hand-dipped soft serve and coursed through the autumn of gelato before falling beneath the cold winter of fat-free fro-yo served with granola. Ever resilient, we emerged in a spring of bold enlightenment on the other side by rebranding our aesthetic.
Now we’re the edible street style stars. Lifestyle bloggers have deferred student loan repayment to become the certified foodies that document our evolution. Reinvigoration felt sexy behind the lens of a DSLR, but the line between art and pageantry was blurred beyond Photoshop’s repair when an entire s’more was fastened onto my head.
We noticed the strategic placement of your homemade midi rings as a point of contrast to our nori sprinkles. In fact, you couldn’t have been more overt in linking to your Etsy page #inthebio ?. Then, the listicle entitled “54 Photos of Soft Serve Ice Cream That Will Get Your Tastebuds Hard” was a perverse beauty pageant that turned my rose-infused soul black. It wasn’t a “definitive ranking,” but seated at number 41, I couldn’t help but feel that my looks went into consideration.
Know that every time a melting scoop cries, an Ice & Vice Jenga pile loses its experimental toppings.
Weren’t my caramelized ramen crumbles enough to ignite your senses before they were shared for unauthorized general consumption? If you wish to paint me like one of your French girls, take me by the hand and don’t just tell me you love me, show me. Inhale me, enjoy me and put down Snapchat; social media platforms don’t rely on your content so long as the Kardashians are maintaining their brand. At two dollars per topping, I am not to be labeled as #foodporn among microwavable pizzas. I am not DiGiorno, for I have a name, and it is Ice Cream.
Certainly you’ve read the Greek myth in which Häagendazses, the god of summer lactose, cried out atop Mount Olympus, “I scream. You scream. We all scream for ice cream.” The phrase stuck immediately, boxed rosé by Bacchus did not, and it was passed down through generations. Today, I fight this stereotype that chains us to an image of silent codependency once and for all with a shout all my own: Maintain the beauty in the eye of the cone holder by extinguishing that of the phone holder.
Photographed by Krista Anna Lewis; creative direction by Emily Zirimis.