…for ice cream; from Brigham’s in Boston, the local New England establishment of my youth where I spent dollars – although it was likely cents back in those days – many afternoons, evenings and weekends. And why, other than it’s still technically summer and extremely hazy, hot and humid today – and perfect ice cream weather of course – am I writing about this non-cancer subject? Because, at this very moment, my brother Richard is en route – by CAR – from Massachusetts (after a week’s vacation), and aside from Vanessa, his wife; their golf clubs and a week’s worth of vacation residue; there are two coolers loaded with pre-packed quarts of a delicacy from our past and one (many actually) likely most rewarding for our present and future, too: Brigham’s Ice Cream.

Though the original stores, a Howard Johnson’s-type restaurant/ice cream parlor combination, no longer exist, thankfully, their recipes still do; sort of like the Washington, D.C.-area Gifford’s Ice Cream Shops did before they were re-established a few years back. Within a few hours now, my freezer will be filled with “Just Jimmies,” “Chocolate” and “Chocolate Chip,” maybe a “Strawberry,” and given what it’s likely to cost (the ice cream is expensive and there’s no multi-quart discount; however, there are no delivery charges), I may have to put a lock on my freezer door. Not to keep my wife out, but to stop other potential perpetrators from getting any ideas.

And just as music is supposed to soothe the savage beast, so too is ice cream supposed to cure what ails you (although emotional eating does have its ups and downs). Moreover, ice cream from your formative years, the age of innocence, is best of all; especially if it’s not local, you haven’t had it in years (it’s not available in our region), is not deliverable by mail, and it’s the kind of indulgence where one fills up two large coolers with ice and cream to guarantee its availability – for a few months, anyway.

Not that there’s any relationship or causation, but my first two jobs as an adolescent were in ice cream shops. First at Baskin Robbins in Newton Centre, beginning the summer after ninth grade ($1.60 per hour) and then again the following summer, after tenth grade, at McManus Ice Cream in Cleveland Circle. Inasmuch as it was unlikely I was weaned on ice cream, I was certainly indoctrinated at a very early age. Before I knew whether it was good for me or not, I knew what was good for me: ice cream and more ice cream. And to reinforce the importance of ice cream in my life, most evenings, at home, around 7:30, my mother, lying in bed after yet another long day of “non-stop-stay-at-home mothering,” would call out to my brother and me: “ice cream,” which would require one of us to walk into the kitchen, open the freezer door, defrost the ice cream, scoop it into a bowl and deliver it to her for a most appreciative kiss. She loved her Brigham’s Ice Cream.

We may have learned to love Brigham’s from her, but we’ve taken it to new levels and new lengths, decades in fact. So here I am, 50 years or so after my mother’s recurring nighttime request, waiting for ice cream, just as she so often did. I imagine my love for her and for the ice cream she loved is all related somehow; probably why it makes me so happy when I’m scooping it.