43. Noa
NOA
When I was old enough to read, Dad gifted me Mom’s childhood collection of leather-bound, gilt-edged fairytales and folklore.
I pored over those books, tracing the arcs of princesses and ugly ducklings, searching for spaces to slip myself into their stories, hoping their happy endings might one day find me, too.
More than anything, I dreamt of a fairy godmother–a kindly witch-woman who would see me, instantly knowing which enchanted spell or pumpkin-on-wheels to conjure to help me fulfill my destiny.
Over the years, I learned why fairy godmothers who materialize from thin air to solve problems exist strictly in the realm of fantasy.
In real life, the reins of fate rest squarely in your hands.
You become your own whimsical wish-granter.
I’ve certainly tried–after all, earning a PhD in ice cream science is pretty whimsical.
Yet, despite my best efforts, I’ve realized there’s nothing passive about conjuring your magic. Wishes demand work.
Which is why, three months ago, I turned down a pair of glass slippers that didn’t fit me, and walked away from Jen it’s the core belief I’ve been striving to embody since everything happened with Aarti.
Life splits us open in unexpected ways, exposing our messy, complicated centers.
When that happens, we deserve something sweet, something that celebrates the beauty of being cracked open, of being different, richer, and more complex beneath the surface.
Besides, bananas have monopolized the split game for far too long.
Why not mangoes crowned with coconut sorbet, or poached pears nestled lovingly between scoops of cardamom-honey ice cream?
“Pass me the coral,” Aiden calls from his perch on a ladder.
I walk over and hand him the paint, admiring how the mural is coming together.
“You spiraling about tonight?” he asks, dabbing coral into a papaya’s flesh.
Tonight . My stomach does a little flip.
“I’m not spiraling.”
“You’re doing that thing where you subconsciously organize things by size.” He gestures with his brush toward my supplies for the menu, lined up in psychotic size-progression on the table.
“Maybe a little spiraling,” I admit.
Tonight is Aiden’s collective art show, Destruction Sounds, and it’s also my soft opening of Split Happens.
His wind chimes made from fire-scorched Topanga wood will hang alongside other artists’ work exploring destruction and renewal.
I’ve been trying to convince myself that my ice cream truck parked outside signifies another form of rising from the ashes, even though it also kinda makes bile rise from my stomach.
Aiden climbs down and pulls me into a paint-smeared hug. “Terror means you care. Tonight’s gonna be incredible.”
By seven p.m., the gallery space in Silver Lake is thrumming with energy. Aiden’s wind chimes clink out an ethereal soundtrack as people move about. I’m stationed in my truck, wearing the apron Aiden embroidered with “Dr. Split” in rainbow thread.
I’ve got three flavors debuting this evening: Split Personality (a brown butter base with caramelized banana slices and miso served over a flambeed plantain), Mango Unchained (a halved mango topped with coconut sticky-rice ice cream and toasted sesame seeds), and Pear Pressure (poached pear filled with brown butter caramel ice cream and crushed honeycomb brittle).
The first few customers are Aiden’s friends, offering enthusiastic support, but soon strangers are lining up as well.
“Oh my god, Pear Pressure PLEASE!?” A woman with paint under her fingernails exclaims.
I serve up the concoction and her eyes close on the first taste.
“Holy shit,” she breathes. “This is art.”
For the first time in three months, I feel fully present. Not thinking about Aarti, not replaying our last conversation, not wondering if I made the right choice. Just here, serving ice cream I created from my whole heart to people who appreciate it for exactly what it is.
The line grows. I’m in a rhythm now, scooping, splitting, drizzling house-made sauces, explaining flavor profiles to curious customers.
The crowd is queer LA scene kid central: a guy with a graffitied mandolin slung over his shoulder, two girls hyperfocused on adding piercings to each other’s Labubus, a drag queen reciting e.e.
cummings aloud to no one in particular. Hair every color imaginable–blue, purple, pink, even a brilliant shade of green approaching the counter…
Hold on.
Make that an achingly familiar shade of green.
My heart drops into my stomach.