As a cook, whose duty it is to appease the appetites of others, I have found only two things that whet my own appetite for solid substance in the morning. The primary culprit is the sweet sizzling smell of smoked pork, expelling its porcine perfume from any and all equipment used to cook bacon. It is the almightiest of meats in my opinion, worthy of its own spot in the foundation of a properly balanced food pyramid. The only other odor I have known to arouse hunger in the morning hours is a bit peculiar. There is a sludge-like substance found at the bottom of most deep-fat fryers once the oil is removed for cleaning. No matter what has been cooked in the fryer–fish, fries, rangoons, rice noodles, churros, or chips–it always smells the same. Every time I catch a whiff, I’m smacked stupid with a desire to devour something real. This is one of my cooking-acquired quirks.

Everyone is idiosyncratic.  It’s part of what makes us human, what makes us intrinsically unique, and our idiosyncrasies continue to develop over the course of our lives. I have become increasingly aware of certain quirks, born in the kitchen, on display in this cook and in other cooks as well. By definition, a quirk is a way of behaving, thinking, or feeling that is peculiar to an individual or a group, especially an odd or unusual one. By my observation, there are restaurant quirks that are commonly shared, and others that are especially peculiar to odd and unusual cooks. These cooks are the ones for whom I have the greatest affinity.

After bumping all around the Lower 48 for a few years, I currently work in the greater Charlotte area, I’m back in the South where quirky kitchen folk aren’t hard to come by. For instance, I knew a broiler cook in Michigan; I called him Sims. All day long the radio played on his station, and for most of the day he would improvise his own lyrics particular to whatever was happening at the time.

A hip hop chorus of, “Ghetto prisoners, rise, rise, rise,” would become, “I need a burger with fries, fries, fries.” Billy Joel’s “Piano Man” was overwhelmed by Sims singing, “Sear us a steak, you’re the broiler man, sear us a steak tonight. We’re all in the mood for it medium; it’s coming back if it ain’t cooked right.” There are countless songs marred by this man, none of which I’ll ever hear the same way again. For that I am grateful.

A chef named Scotty who, well (there’s no P.C. way to put it) “swung both ways,” would always remind people when he slid by them in the narrow spaces up and down the line that, “Everything is cool.” It was his way of telling people that he just needed to ladle a cup of soup, or grab a side of Caesar dressing, and that he wasn’t trying to cop a feel. Scotty must have worked in a hellacious, way-too-busy weekend joint before we worked together, because no matter what the restaurant looked like at 6:30 on Friday night, he’d start getting jittery. At the first sight of tables showing up, he always–and I mean always–remarked, “Here they come boys,” as if the Roman legions had just finished conquering Europe and we were the unfortunate cooks sentenced to feed them all. Scotty, if you ever read this, I know it’s cool and I love you, you kooky old bastard.

Then there was Rick, “Tricky-Rick,” as I called him, or even “Silent P” (as in “P”rick), as he sometimes introduced himself. During the summers Rick came in to work the dinner rush in a pub out West that I once referred to as my home away from home. In the winter, he worked in the kitchen at the ski lodge so he could snowboard for free. Rick rolled in at 3:00 p.m. to set up and work the cold side, which took the first hit from customers at around 5:30. In his two-and-a-half hours of relative downtime amidst the trickle of tickets for happy hour customers wanting nachos, Rick cleaned and restocked his line cooler and steam table in an immaculate fashion. I’m O.C.D. when it comes to prepping my mise en place prior to service, but this kid took it to a level for which psychoanalysts haven’t yet developed a term. Right before the dinner rush hit, when his line was less than a smudge away from perfection, he covered every visible inch of stainless-steel with a double layer of plastic wrap, making sure to keep it cling and wrinkle free. Then we’d get hit–sling this, sling that, do our thing, feed the masses, have a laugh, wind down, and, finally close. After the ceremonial post-rush/pre-clean smoke, Rick would come in, switch out his cooler containers, stock a little more if necessary, put the lids on, rip off the plastic wrap, and within ten minutes be in his street clothes clocking out.

Idiosyncrasies might not quite account for the nature of a pastry chef I knew named Claire. Perhaps it was an infrequent quirk at some point in her career but by the time I worked with her, she had a full-fledged propensity toward sexual aggression. Never before and not since have I felt so vulnerable around a female. My only guess is that at some point she realized that the only way to fight a certain type of fire is by burning the hell out of it. In an industry full of foul-mouthed man-boys trapped in a mostly steel box for hours on end, the kitchen can be a precarious place for an attractive girl. Not for Claire. She was the first girl who groped, spanked, and snickered at me so viciously that I felt violated. She was so aggressive that I never once thought about initiating any type of flirtatious behavior. I had a healthy fear of being humiliated by her reaction. A friend and fellow line cook once justified my fear when he made the mistake of walking up behind her, grabbing her hips and uttering a few choice phrases too raunchy for print. If you’ve ever seen a small dog mount a larger dog then you’ll have an easy time picturing what happened. After a vicious bump backwards, while he was holding himself and moaning, she took him by a fistful of hair, bent him over the closest countertop, and proceeded to hump him–the way dogs do–shouting, “Is that how you like it!” That poor guy was too embarrassed to blush. He just turned white, ghost white, and never messed with her again. Claire, however untactfully or even unlawfully, gave me a new appreciation for women in the commercial kitchen, and, point of fact, the girl could outright bake. Years later, I still crave her spiced applesauce cake.

Cooks: my brand, my people, my preference. The twisted societal microcosm of the commercial kitchen claims the full gamut of personalities and personality disorders: from crackpots, crazies, and junkies to saints, sages, and even a few ordinary citizens. The fast-paced, stressful swelter of the line and the antithetical saunter required to rock it (i.e., to prepare food efficiently and effectively) produce a breed of body and soul like no other. We generally operate like a large dysfunctional family, bound not by love but by a common duty, purpose, and passion: to cook a damn fine product, present it in the most pleasing way possible, and hurry the hell up because the customer’s waiting. Idiosyncrasies are welcome and even encouraged. You can be as strange as they come, so long as you can hold your own when–“Here they come boys”–it’s time to cook.

~ John Zoet

I possess a B.A. from a university. I have several years of professional experience, and a list of references to back me. I thought I was doing well. But after spending hour after hour, night after night sending my resume out into the vast vacuum that is the internet, with no response, I started to go a little loopy. It was 2 o’clock in the morning, I was vulnerable, I’d had a few glasses of wine, and I lost my inhibitions. I responded to a “job offer” that popped up in my inbox. I showed up for the interview still skeptical, but after meeting with the head of the company I started to believe it was legit. They were a marketing and event planning company, and they raised money for several causes that helped children. It would be a “fun” job, she explained, that is “feel-good” and “fulfilling.”  It sounded great. This should have been my first cue to run. But my mind swirled around late-night internet searches and retail jobs with horrendous hours, so I was in. I would show up Monday and head out into the “field” with two other girls to an “event” that would give me “hands on training.” Fabulous!

I arrive in business-casual attire–slacks and a pair of heels, with a collared shirt. My trainers greet me, and immediately take note of my shoes. “Oh,” says one. “I hope you brought sneakers.” Yes, because that’s what I always bring my first day at a new job. And thanks for the heads up. We get in the car to head to our big “event.” The driver was very bubbly, too bubbly for 9 a.m. Girl #2 was mellow, albeit very nice. Everything is going fine until we pull out onto the highway and the bubbly one quickly accelerates both her car and her speech to 85 m.p.h. Out of nowhere, she produces a pen and piece of paper and places it in the center of her steering wheel. “So tell me about yourself!”

Let’s see…I can tell you that this is the one time I REALLY should have listened to my mother and never gotten into a car with a stranger, and that I’m really sorry I ate those eggs for breakfast. I hang on tight and do all I can to keep them down. Twenty minutes later we exit the highway, and through one eye I spot a Lowe’s Home Improvement. Surely we have stopped to ask for directions? I suggest to Ms. Bubbles that we better hurry, or else we will be late to the big event. Instead, she parks and instructs me to help “set up.”  I hop out and notice the other girl pulling items from the trunk: a folding table, some t-shirts, a few water bottles and some lunch carriers. Oh. Dear. Lord. This is “hands-on training”? Am I about to become one of those people that I run from?

Before I can say anything, Ms. Bubbles begins to harass her first costumers: some burly looking men needing some building materials. “I think someone needs a t-shirt!” she chirps. The men give her half a glance and keep on walking. “Almost had ‘em,” she says. Here comes an elderly couple. “Come on over and check out these water bottles! You can help the children!” They keep on trucking. I was mortified.

Twenty minutes later Mrs. Bubbles tells me I need to “be aggressive.”

“You know, this really isn’t my thing…” is my reply.

She shoots me a hard glance. “You don’t want to help children?”

Um, last time I checked, helping was donating, not pushing t-shirts onto innocent shoppers. But I back off. I decide I’ll be responsible and suck up my lapse in judgment for a day, and just run like hell the minute I got out of her car and never look back. I am no quitter. I will finish what I started. Ten minutes later I was in the Lowe’s bathroom, dialing my husband. “Pleeeeease come get me!”

“I can’t! I’m in meetings all morning. Wait, you’re where? Doing what?” He stopped laughing and hit the road.

I went back outside and played it cool, and waited for about forty more minutes. I felt guilty for second, but then Mrs. Bubbles tried to lure children in with her nifty lunchsack and it was over for me. Finally, I saw his car pull up. He slowed down and I made a run for it–he never even came to a full stop.

“What do you think you’re doing?” yelled Ms. Bubbles. “Don’t you want to help the children? You are a horrible person!”

Am I? I slammed the door and we were off.

~ Alessandra Salvatore

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Sure, Facebooking can be fun, but let’s explore its ups and downs. A positive experience may go something like this: an old buddy finds you and “adds you as a friend.” You accept the request and visit her profile, maybe write something on her wall. “So good to hear from you! You and the kids look fab! You’re in VA now? I’m in NC! Let’s catch up!” Later that day she writes you a similar message and “tags” you in some great photos of good times from college. She links you up with three of your favorite people with whom you’ve lost contact, and you are now planning a much needed “girls’ reunion weekend.” In the midst of this, your favorite cousin is messaging you, filling you in on the fam back home. Excellent!

Here’s where it gets hairy: upon logging in, you are taken to the “Newsfeed.” You learn that Mary just ate a pound of mac ‘n’ cheese and can’t move, Roger fractured his arm playing Wii Bowling, you have 46 requests to take the “Which Desperate Housewives Character Are You?” quiz, 34 pending requests to “join my cause,” and discover that 24 of your friends are fans of the “I f*cking hate mosquitos” club. OMG, TMI! I wonder why we all have A.D.D.? You move on to your homepage, only to be smacked in the face with five photos you’ve been “tagged” in from that glorious night where you were not only hammered, but somehow managed to form a bright red zit in the center of your forehead that apparently grew larger with every shot you slugged. Why are your eyes half closed? And what the hell are you pointing and laughing at that no one else around you seems to notice? Where…? Oh my God, tequila night. It’s all coming back now. Un-tag! Un-tag! Let’s hope that you’ve gotten rid of these for good, and that they don’t wind up on some Japanese billboard ad for Valtrex. (Note: An innocent U.S. family’s photo really did wind up on a foreign billboard, and I recently also read that a man received an advertisement for “Hot Young Singles!” accompanied by a stolen pic of his wife.)

If you are going to keep Facebooking, or if you have just crawled out from under your rock and are thinking of starting now, then take the following into consideration:
(1.) Be careful of the pics that you post. Any questions, see above.
(2.) Employers search Facebook. I personally know of one who did not hire that perfect candidate she interviewed after seeing her very racy profile pic. Unfair? Maybe. Does it happen? Definitely.
(3.) Think before you update your status. While posting “VEGAS FOR 5 DAYS!!!” will make you look cool to some, to others you actually just posted “MY APARTMENT WILL BE VACANT FOR 5 DAYS–COME GET MY NEW FLATSCREEN I POSTED ABOUR LAST WEEK!!” Now who’s LMFAO?

Overall, it’s interesting.  We have no time for anything, yet take quizzes to discover our chocolate personality. We have eighty ways of communicating, yet we lack communication. We don’t like tabs being kept on us, yet we will openly illustrate everywhere we go, and freely offer up personal info via “25 things about me.” While Facebooking can be a guilty pleasure we can certainly all indulge, start to think about what else we could be doing with our time. Plant a tree. Save a lonely animal from a shelter. Help someone in need. Just don’t forget to update your status so we know where you went.

~ Alessandra Salvatore

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For a unique place that has amazing accessories for both men and women, look no further than Revolution. Located on the second floor of the Epicentre, the sprawling shop is home to a plethora of designer clothing and accessories. They’ve got a great atmosphere, and their fun and down-to-earth staff will make you feel right at home and help you find whatever it is that you are looking for. You can score big here no matter what your personal style is, and they are always running great sales. Ladies, check out the jewelry line here from Diana Warner. Her pieces seem as though they’ve been hand-crafted just for you, and she’s got everything–funky earrings, beautiful necklaces, and gorgeous bracelets. My favorites were these cuffs (shown), that have sayings such as “future” and “hope,” for $45. While you’re browsing, make sure you check out the pieces from Mark Edge. I fell in love with this antique gold and silver lariat, complete with a gorgeous purple gem (shown), for $129.

Guys, listen up: you’ll want to check out Revolution too. Accessorizing is just as important for you–I know several of you realize this already, but many of you don’t. Having three older brothers, I understand. Something as simple as the right belt, like this worn-in brown leather option by J. Lindenberg for $110, can take your run-of-the-mill button-down-and-jeans outfit and kick it up ten notches to a trendy ensemble that will set you apart from the crowd. Not too much, but just enough. Chicks notice this. I’m just saying. Make sure you take a peek at the line of masculine cuffs from Cynthia Desser (shown), ranging from $99 – $155.

Back to the ladies: another great place for show-stopping pieces is Butterfly, located in the Bank of America building. Here you will find stunning necklaces, striking earrings, and elegant cocktail rings, to name a few, all at great price points. Most of their jewelry is handmade, which means you are finding unique pieces that you won’t see anywhere else. I scored big with a sterling silver cocktail ring with mother-of-pearl stone for $35, and also found a one-of-a-kind two-tone lariat necklace that goes great with a formal dress for $39. If you are shopping for a gift, make sure you ask to have it gift-wrapped–their fun ribbon and colors will make you happy you did. While you are in the Bank of America building, head up to the second floor and browse around Ivy & Leo. Among their adorable dresses, you can find some great necklaces here as well.

I’m always intrigued when people tell me they don’t know how to accessorize. Of course they do. I think that the real problem is that they just haven’t found the right places. Hopefully the above will inspire you. Happy shopping!

~ Alessandra Salvatore

On an early-summer evening, he ambles through the door and looks around to see if anything is out of place. He talks to the manager-on-duty for updates on the happenings of the evening. She points, he looks, and they smile. The two appear to have a family-like bond, like relatives who actually like each other. Shortly thereafter, Bazzelle inconspicuously checks tables, eyes the big fluffy desserts atop the counter, and approves of what his chefs are crafting on the grill behind the steamy glass partition. He almost seems to be camouflaged, as if he’s a patron, until he eases behind the counter like he owns the place.

This place is the eleven-year-old storefront restaurant aptly named Mert’s Heart and Soul. Mert’s is one of the original storefront restaurants in Charlotte’s new Uptown area and, according to Bazzelle, former Bank of America CEO Hugh McColl even had a hand in its creation. The eclectically decorated eatery sits at 214 North College Street, a stone’s throw from the corner of College and Fifth Streets.

From the outside you can’t really grasp the “heart and soul” through the oversized glass windows. But once you swing open the door, an ethereal heart and soul quality comes rushing at you like DeAngelo Williams in the fourth quarter. James Bazzelle wanted it this way. The father of four envisioned a family-style establishment where his patrons could enjoy themselves and feel like kicking their feet up and rubbing their bellies in satisfaction. Except I wouldn’t suggest actually kicking your feet up. This is a respectable place that might even have a grandmother emerging from the back to smack your ankles with a rolled up newspaper if you did. In fact, it was Mertle Lockhart, James Bazzelle’s favorite grandmother-like patron, for whom Mert’s Heart and Soul is named.

“Mrs. Lockhart would come in to my first restaurant during the lunch buffet. She was a feisty woman who wore bright colors and big jewelry. And she loved my cooking,” Bazzelle reminisces.

Mertle Lockhart was one of many patrons that loved James Bazzelle’s cooking because it seems that James Bazzelle was born to cook. He is from Athens, Georgia and discovered his love of cookery after enrolling in a home economics class in high school. From there, he attended Athens Vocational College, earned an Associate’s Degree, and started his own catering business.

“My parents never talked about college. Everyone mainly worked in the local plant doing the same thing every day. I told myself that I wanted something different,” he confesses. Relocating to Charlotte in the early 1990’s, James produced meals for Holiday Inn and later had the idea to create his own dishes for his first restaurant, Georgia on Tryon. During its three-year run, Georgia on Tryon served original recipes of healthy baked meats and tasty sides. Along with his original healthy dishes, the iconic Shrimp and Grits was one of the favorites on the menu. After learning that everyone wasn’t quite ready for his unconventional idea of wholesome-Low-Country-meets-down-home-soul-food, Georgia on Tryon closed its doors.

Bazzelle and his wife went back to the drawing board, drafting a slightly different menu. He wanted to appeal to his former customers, entice new patrons such as taste-driven “meat-atarians” and dedicated vegetarians, and all the while incorporate more health-conscious selections containing all of the flavor one expects from true Southern cuisine. With this revamped philosophy, James Bazzelle compromised with his followers and incorporated fried chicken and fish. However, he didn’t budge on using fresh vegetables and healthier cooking oils.

I’m a vegetarian, and Bazzelle’s philosophy has served me well. On even the most vegetarian-friendly menus I get headaches searching for something that’s healthy yet tasty. But I’ve been eating at Mert’s regularly for a year and a half and I’m never frustrated.

On my first visit, before even perusing the menu, I thought I would have to concoct my own weird veggie plate as I always do at restaurants—omitting this, modifying that, and making sure it wasn’t boiled in chicken broth. My entrée order typically ends with me apologizing for being difficult, the servers telling me it’s okay while mentally stabbing themselves with their No. 2 pencil.

At Mert’s, I was able to order the actual Veggie Plate Dinner with Okra and Tomatoes, Macaroni and Cheese, and Sweet Yams. It took me twenty seconds flat to decide, and I modified nothing. Minutes later, a smiling server scooted a modest plate in front of me. Initially I thought, Is this it? That was before I learned that in a society where bigger is thought to be better, Bazzelle decided to discredit that myth by serving meals comparable to those served years ago, before the appearance of “super size” menus. Healthy food and healthy portions are his aim.

I wasted no time digging into my meal. The bowl of okra and tomatoes was first. I used my fork to scoot a small bit of both onto my fork, not knowing what to expect. Okra is typically slimy and cooked tomatoes are known to lose their density, but I was pleasantly surprised. The perfectly balanced flavors exploded in my mouth. The hearty chunks of tomatoes complemented the slices of okra in a way that no other vegetable can. The natural juice created by this marriage was so delightful I requested a spoon to scoop the remainder that hid in the bottom of the bowl.

The mac and cheese was next on the plate and it didn’t disappoint me. I’ve tasted this dish prepared a variety of ways, from versions with bread crumbs sitting on top to ones where pimentos had been tossed in, and while I’m sure there are other hidden ingredients added, the version at Mert’s seems as if it is made simply from cheddar cheese and macaroni shells, baked to perfection.

Next, to top off the meal, was the bowl of yams. I purposely saved it for last because this vegetable, at least for me, serves double-duty as a flattering side item and an appealing dessert. The butter and cinnamon, and what tastes like honey contrasted nicely with the salted notes in the previous dishes. I scraped the bottom of my bowl, and even dumped it over to get the last drip that hid in the curve. I was deeply satisfied.

On my next visit the same week, I swapped the mac and cheese for thick mashed potatoes and enjoyed them just as much. I also bragged about the place to a friend and decided to treat him to my new discovery. At the end of the meal, the friend sat across the table from me and gnawed on his fingers, savoring the oversized chicken wings he’d just devoured. He also finished off a bowl of collard greens that were piled high with fresh chopped onions and tomatoes.

Over the last eighteen months, having frequented Mert’s Heart and Soul regularly and gotten to know the modest health activist behind the scenes, I’ve developed a new appreciation for James Bazzelle and his quest for a healthier life for his customers. I’ve also become one of his biggest fans. This isn’t a man who wanted to become famous by fattening his patrons while fluffing his pockets. For eleven years, James Bazzelle has relentlessly dedicated himself to Mert’s Heart and Soul, and to the city of Charlotte, in attempts to undo the harmful stereotypes of fatty Southern cooking. Not many are aware of the subtle battle he is fighting on our behalf. As a witness to this mission, I assure you that he continues to greatly exceed expectations.

Mert’s Heart and Soul located at 214 North College Street, operates Monday through Friday, 11 a.m. to 9 p.m., and Saturday and Sunday, 9 a.m. to 9 p.m. For more information about the restaurant, visit mertsuptown.com or call 704.342.4222.

~ Dawn Cauthen

Ice cream has been my favorite food for as long as I can remember. When in a new location, my top priority is to try the local ice cream. A Spring Break trip introduced me to the soursop fruit flavor of the Caribbean islands of Turks and Caicos. During a tour of Italy I sampled more than a few of the gelaterias of Rome. I saw one-dollar American ice cream bars on every corner in China while there on a cultural tour, and just this summer, while visiting friends in San Francisco, I experienced salted caramel and balsamic strawberry ice cream. I have had the world’s ice cream. Could there be a better job for me?

This meant one thing to me—unlimited creamy mouthfuls of paradise.

Even better, believe it or not, the creamery I worked for this last summer makes the best ice cream I have ever tasted. After searching the world for that elusive flavor and texture, I found it right in my hometown, Indianapolis, at Trader’s Point Creamery. This small, family-owned farm is one of a kind, a Mecca for dairy lovers where there’s a passionate belief in grass-feeding cows to produce milk for the very best organic dairy products.

I believe Trader Point Creamery’s ice cream is the shining star of the operation, as I am sure an upcoming national competition will fully support. (Remember, you heard it here first!). Their ice cream is non-homogenized; meaning the fat in the milk has not been broken up into small particles. This is also the reason why a person, rather than a fully mechanized system, must oversee the freezing process, as the product can easily turn to butter during the freezing process. The finished ice cream is light, but coats your mouth. It’s creamy, but has substance. It tastes like biting into a banana or blackberry, or sucking on a caramel, depending on the flavor. It can turn around any bad day and mend a broken heart.

The dairy guru of the farm, Fons, trained me in the process and protocols of turning mix into ice cream. He is the man behind all of the creamery’s recipes. When he began, the farm produced only milk. Now, after just a few years, the farm produces a well-known brand of yogurt and cheese. I love listening to his stories of the creameries he has built from the ground up, from Mongolia to Tanzania. On my first day we discussed his past experiences, and dreamt big for my future. I took precise notes on everything we did from turning on the freezer to turning off the light. I was as prepared as I was ever going to be for my first day of flying solo. His final words were, “Find your own way of doing things, and don’t worry.”

In the beginning, nothing went right. My clothes were soaked from the spray produced by washing the implements. The mix-filled buckets were so heavy that I had to lean them against my legs and then do a quick shuffle from the massive refrigerator to my production area. My arms were shaking from the heavy lifting. I had to invent a two part process to break down the batches into smaller quantities in order to lift them above my head into the machine. Always lift from the legs not with the back—I learned the importance of that the hard way. I nearly fainted as the machines heated up my small ice cream making lair. I was sweating bullets, struggling to keep the machine full of mix. Yet, the final packing boxes were overflowing. The floor, the walls, and I were coated with chocolate mix. Somehow there was even ice cream in my shoes.

Aside from my personal dilemmas, I couldn’t get the thickness right—it was either soup or butter. The constant splat, splat, splat of too-soft ice cream was chiseling away at my sanity. I feared I had ruined numerous gallons of ice cream, my career down the drain. Most difficult of all was that once it started, the ice cream making didn’t stop until it was time for clean-up. Thankfully, each day was more controlled and cleaner than the last, and no ice cream ever had to be trashed.

Each new flavor was a challenge. All flavors must come out smooth and soft, but keep their shape when they fall into the tub. Caramel and chocolate can be a bit harder because they are made with more dry matter. The ice cream-sorbet crossover can be almost like custard, as there is significantly less cream in the mix, and therefore it is more difficult to turn it into butter. As with so much in life, I was trying to attain that perfect balance.

Soon, it was a completely different world. Friends I made would come by and chat as I packed the freezer full. I commandeered a radio so I could sing and dance as I washed tools and fill tubs. Perhaps I was most proud that I could walk out of work and not look like I just showered in milk. Rather than straining to keep up with my tasks, I was now able to get ahead on clean up, set up for the next day, and run tests such as how much air is being added to the mix while the ice cream peacefully flows.

People came in and were mesmerized by the perfect waved ribbon that flowed, and they would whisper, “It’s beautiful.” Outside and away from work, it was like name dropping, but more powerful: I would casually slip into conversations that I was the one producing everyone’s favorite ice cream. People turned in their tracks and deliver an onslaught of questions. Hey, I realized, I have a fan club!

~ Jenn Burns

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