Not Our Ice Cream Contest

Written June 12th, 2025 - Entry: Three

Category: Memory

My friend called me one time and told me we should enter an ice cream contest.

I was like, "Let’s do it."

He said, "Okay, I just passed by a sign that said ‘Neighborhood Ice Cream Contest,’ and it’s in an hour."

Neither of us knew how to make ice cream, and neither of us lived in that neighborhood.

The idea got even better.

We hit up that trusty Braum’s and got the plain Jane vanilla.

Already an hour past the time of the neighborhood block party...

We bent our spoons and even tried slicing this ice cream with a butter knife, trying to mash this thick frozen block into unrecognizable Tupperware.

I think I actually peed my pants.

Are we bad people? Nahhhh.

Pulling up to the block party, seeing all the families, we nearly turned around.

We did text the number on the sign prior and asked if our presence was welcome.

And she said, “Come on down!”

It was actually the most warming environment.

The sweetest lady in charge, running the ice cream contest, greeted us like family and took our ice cream in gratitude. She said how good it looked and that she couldn’t believe how we got it to the perfect consistency.

So as we stepped in, we were greeted by Grandpa Ken, a physical therapist named Terri, the cutest basset hound named Sir, and many more of your neighborhood folk.

We hula-hooped with some kids, blew bubbles, and ran up some neighborhood bingo.

Grandpa Ken was now my Grandpa Ken, and these neighborhood strangers felt like I actually had my entire childhood on this block.

Then it was time for the contest.

Of course, in our heads, given that there were probably 50 people there, we assumed at least half of them would enter the contest.

Nope.

Three contestants.

Us, a little kid and his mother’s strawberry ice cream, and an older couple with some chocolate swirl deluxe.

I actually couldn’t hold my laughter.

But of course, me and my friend tried all three, giving each other the look every 30 seconds as we saw all these people judging our ice cream.

They loved “our” ice cream…

sadly.

I cannot tell you how many of them came up to us and said how good it was.

They asked how we made it, and I just said, “With love,” and that my grandpa showed me when I was a young girl.

The way the contest was judged was by putting a penny in the jar in front of your favorite ice cream.

The kids and a majority of the adults started voting for ours.

Saying, “You can’t beat a good old vanilla.”

Me and my friend, trying to contain ourselves from obscene laughter, took matters into our own hands.

We sneakily grabbed a handful of pennies and put them in the other people’s jars.

We actually couldn’t let it go that far.

And of course, more people started voting for ours.

So we once again sneakily got back in line and moved some pennies around, as one of us kept watch while the other worked some magic.

But luckily, when the winner was announced and the little plastic trophy was given out...

It was to the sweet boy with the spectacular strawberry ice cream.

Thank the Lord.

We continued to mingle, then said our goodbyes and got so many bear hugs and "come back again next years."

I tell you all this not to advise you to go rig an ice cream contest, but to loosen your grip a little, add some spunkiness back to your life, and join something you never thought would be yours.

(And to meet a grandpa named Ken.)

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