I can only remembering making ice cream once as a child. Literally, once. And I didn't even make it, I just watched my aunt make it during one of my summers "down south," in Alabama. I mean really, I was six years old, going on seven (I remember being very proud of that fact), and I "made ice cream"...with my aunt Shorty.
So, what makes a thirty year old woman want to open an ice cream parlor out of the clear blue sky--four words: Hoodlum and Harlem Nights. Now, I'm not sure why my parents let me watch such profane movies as a child but I loved watching Harlem Nights and Hoodlum repeatedly...I mean the scenes where they'd be in Sugar Ray's or when Bumpy Johnson, asked the guy who put almonds on his split :-) Maaaan that did it for me. And it made me want to be an old lady in her 70s with an ice cream parlor near Cass Tech, my alma mater. Now, fast forward from 1997 to 2013, several failed businesses and attempts at some kind of career later and there I am laying on a bed in the Hard Rock Hotel on Michigan Avenue in Chicago, chatting it up with my cousin. As usual, I'm sitting there fussing about the failures of Detroit, and how it shouldn't be like blah blah blah and how Detroit is the foundation upon which modern American Society was built and how we need a better visitor's book like they do in Chicago for guests who come to visit Detroit...and as I'm running my mouth, I mosey over to the coffee table and pick up the book...I plop the book along with myself back down on the bed and I open it up and BAM...there it is...there's a full spread on some old school ice cream parlor in Chicago that's been around since Methusala and everything begins to come together. I go silent. Silent because I had been praying for an answer, praying for direction, and there it was...Detroit and Ice Cream...I looked up at my cousin and said, "Ki...I think I'm going to open an ice cream parlor."