Addicted to Ice Cream

I love ice cream—that feel of rich smoothness in my mouth when it’s melted just right. My favourite is Haagen Daaz Swiss Almond, although I also like Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey or pistachio… but really, any ice cream will do as long as it hits that craving. 

Whenever the topic of ice cream comes up (in conversation or in front of an ice cream parlour), I tell friends with a serious face that I have a problem, that I am addicted to ice cream. Usually they don’t look too concerned; they ask with a sly smile, “oh yeah, what’s your favourite?”

And I say, “no, you don’t understand, I am addicted, like a junkie is addicted to his drug. I’m an ice cream junkie! But I’m off ice cream right now, so don’t temp me.”

Amused faces look at me. “That’s an interesting proposition. What makes you think you can compare your love of ice cream to a drug addiction?”

Let me start by telling you about the beginning. When I was a child, I used to sneak into the kitchen to steal ice cream bars or cones or sandwiches from the family freezer. They came in carton boxes—my favourite was the Domino sandwich: a vanilla ice cream cuboid, one half covered with chocolate, the other half sandwiched between wafers. Whenever the boxes neared an empty state, I knew I was in trouble. My mother couldn’t know if it was my brother or me who did the stealing (we both did, but I might have been a little worse), so we both got a talking-to. We laid off the stealing for a little while after the boxes had been replenished, but soon the temptation became too big to resist, and the pilfering continued. I believe my mother was more interested in having some of the ice cream herself than in deterring us from stealing it since her threats of no longer buying any were never executed as far as I remember. When the boxes were empty, however, the lack of availability never troubled me. It was recreational use back then.

That changed in university. When I lived in an off-campus apartment in Cottbus, where I studied, there was a small supermarket at the corner, no more than a minute’s walk away. One day, I spotted no-big-brand ice cream pints, except they were 700 ml, at a very good price. They had two flavours: wild berry and mocha; I tried wild berry first. When you opened the lid, you saw a round colourful centre (red for berry, beige brown for mocha) surrounded by white creamy peaks reminiscent of decorations on fancy cakes and desserts. The combination of the flavourful centre and the plain white cream was heavenly, a sweet melty sensuous high. 

I ate it straight from the tub and finished a bit more than half in one sitting, which didn’t leave enough for the next day, so I went to get more for a daily dose of heaven. My intake increased to two thirds of a container per day in the first week; it was addictive, hard to stop. At that time I was weighing myself almost daily, but when I didn’t see an uptick on the scale, I convinced myself that it was actually good for me to have ice cream. It helped with regular bodily elimination, so there was a benefit. 

That idea was enough to justify stocking up. When I finished almost a whole container in one sitting once, it seemed silly to put such a small quantity back into the freezer (I could almost see the bottom of the tub), especially since the texture was the perfect melt. So I pushed past satiety without caring that my stomach hurt; it was worth it. The following days I did the same, and very soon I had trained my stomach to accept a whole tub plus a little extra for a taste of the other flavour.

Not long and I ate one and a half tubs of ice cream every day… until I discovered that eating this much of it did, after all, make a difference to the fit of my pants, and the scale was no longer friendly. I knew I couldn’t go on like this (never mind the improved regularity of bowel movements). I decided to just have less in a sitting, maybe half a pint—and I failed. I found it impossible to have less than a whole tub; once I started I had to finish it; it just wasn’t satisfying otherwise, and then I might as well not have any at all. 

So I didn’t for a few days, but I kept thinking about the taste, the texture, the smoothness of it in my mouth and going down. The next time at the grocer, I walked by the ice cream freezer and thought, one more is not going to hurt, and for good measure I bought two. Both were obliterated the same day. My stomach was hurting, and yet I was craving more. I knew then that I had a real problem.

It was a demonic drive that kept me spiraling down the ice cream slide… until I didn’t like myself anymore, not in the mirror and not that uncontrollable feeling inside. I set up rules for having no ice cream at all, since I clearly couldn’t control myself around it. I avoided the aisle with the ice cream freezer in the store, and I did quite well for a while, although I was still thinking about it every day and dreaming about it at night. I wanted to go buy ‘just one more pint’ many times but stopped myself until I succeeded to stay away for three weeks. I thought, by now I’d probably beat the damn cycle and I really wanted some ice cream, thank you very much; after all, it was summer and you can’t deprive yourself forever, there’s no sense in that. And then the cycle began again: intentional hiatus followed by lapse, in endless repetition. 

Nowadays, I frequently have intervals of no-ice-cream for a prolonged time, months even. I can put it out of my mind until something reminds me, and then I’m not able to forget it again until the itch is scratched and the craving satisfied. The last time that happened was when I had a Spanish lesson, and there was an image of delicious ice cream scoops in the text book. The exercise was to discuss our preferences in Spanish; which flavour was my favourite? I fought the urge valiantly for a few days, but eventually I gave in and went to get just a scoop at a stand, thinking that was surely better than having a whole pint. Once it was coursing through my veins, though, I wanted more and that didn’t stop until I’d ingested a 2-liter tub of vanilla ice cream (with some rum poured over top) and then two of my favourite Haagen Daaz Swiss Almond (because I found them on a fantastic sale). To be honest, I didn’t even enjoy them that much, not like I used to. Maybe they changed the recipe, or maybe my tastes have changed… which didn’t prevent me, however, from having it all within a few days. That was my latest stint into the ice cream world. 

I want to vow that I am now done with ice cream, for good, that I could even have just a little sample because it doesn’t even taste that good anymore! Alas, I know myself better than that. The thought will creep into my subconscious and from there into my conscious, remembering the satisfying experience when I’d first had that berry or mocha ice cream in Cottbus and wanting more of it. That is what every experience is measured against, and I wonder why I keep trying to repeat it, even though my rational mind knows that it can never be recaptured. That first experience was ephemeral and it’s gone forever. Never again will I have that first high.

This is why I equate my fondness for ice cream to an addiction. It mimics the experience of someone with a more serious addiction (like alcohol, tobacco, drugs). The behaviour and the thought processes are the same: obsessive thinking about it, trying to ignore the craving, rationalizing that “just one more” would be okay, compulsive returning to the addictive experience regardless of the consequences, entering a cycle of continued usage, feeling miserable about it, swearing off the substance for a while until obsessive thinking starts the cycle again. (I will admit that addictions to alcohol, tobacco and drugs cause serious physical withdrawal symptoms, and this is where my comparison falls apart. I don’t mean to minimize those ordeals with my frivolous story, but I do believe that the routine describes addictive behaviour.)

In my defense, we now know that sugar, and especially the combination of sugar and fat, is legitimately addictive. Food corporations exploit this to meet and exceed profit margins with their processed and packaged “foods” which keep everyone coming back for more. For me, that happens to be ice cream. 

My friends still laugh at me; they rib me and taunt me. I admit, it is hard to keep a straight face when having this conversation. There are a few who purposefully try to tempt me at every turn, just for the pure glee of seeing me fail, I believe. Because they are fallible, too, and have their own vices they might struggle to overcome. Let me just say this: it’s not nice! I would support you fully if you were trying to give one of them up, no questions asked. You wouldn’t do this to a sober alcoholic, or would you?