Sometimes I make ice cream. I bought an ice cream maker about a year ago, after watching The Great British Baking Show. It looked easy. It is. Yesterday I made butterscotch ice cream. Oh, how I love butterscotch. There's a story there.
As a teeny bopper in the late 1960's I imagined I was the reincarnation of my maternal grandmother, who died before I was born. Don't ask me why, it was a conceit born of teen frenzy, a countercultural whim. There might have been drugs involved.
Creating this self-serving fantasy took a lot of creative energy. I picked my mother's brain for information about Grandma. What was she like, her favorite foods, flowers, colors, I asked. Apparently she loved butterscotch. Hey! Me, too. THERE was the proof of our metempsychotical* connection.
That set me on a path of exploration. Mom made Grandma G's butterscotch pie. If I scraped the meringue off the top and only ate the bottom part it was heaven. When I went to the Dairy Queen I'd order a butterscotch sundae. Also heavenly. When my mother bought butterscotch swirl ice cream, my happiness was near to bursting.
I no longer believe I am a reincarnated version of Grandma G; however, I do feel connected to her because of butterscotch.
*Yes, metempsychosis is a word. Do you love it as much as I do?