A Sweet Spoonful

We all have memories of foods that remind us of Summer. For me, it’s Log Cabin ice cream. My family has been coming to the same little funky cabin in Kings Beach, Lake Tahoe for almost thirty years–beginning soon after I was born. When we lived in Eureka, the drive was much longer than it is now (a quick jaunt from the Bay Area); we’d load up the car with blow up rafts, word puzzles, and juice boxes and head on out. Although we’d only go up in the Summer and the Winter, I can’t think of a place that has been more of a constant in my life. This from the girl who moved into three different apartments during the three years I lived in Boston. I feel like I always have a box packed. Things have changed, for sure. When my parents got divorced, my dad got the house. So a place that was so much about my mom isn’t any longer. We don’t hear the late night sound of her sneaking out to the casino ; we don’t look out onto the pier to see her perched on the edge with a floppy hat and a fashion magazine. The lake levels fluctuate, neighbors come and go, restaurants change ownership…but Log Cabin’s always there.
In a world where things change by the microsecond, I love that I can come back to Tahoe, walk through the dilapidated motel with bats, drug deals, and screechy electrical wires, over to The Log Cabin to see the same menu that I did when I was four, fourteen, twenty-four. I realize you don’t get a good sense of each sundae with this photo, but as a kid this is pretty much how it looked. A big board with lots of words, colorful swirly’s and zig-zags, and endless opportunity.

We often went to Log Cabin for a small scoop throughout the summer. As a kid, it was all about the bubblegum ice cream: blue, creamy confection with multicolored round treasures that you’d clean, spit back out, and save for later. But throughout our vacation, my mom only let us have one sundae, on the very last night. So each time we were at the little walk-up, we stared at the menu, trying to decide which one we’d choose when the fateful day came. S’more Sundae? Emerald Bay Split? Growing up, you sort of defined yourself by which sundae you chose. It was a statement–something that spoke about your interests and your palette, if only to yourself (which was obviously the case). When I was little, I would usually get Goodbye Mr. Chips. I think just for the cool name. I remember wondering who this mysterious Mr. Chips was and where he went off to, making up scenarios on the walk home. Maybe he was a lawyer who had to relocate for work. Maybe he was a fisherman who drowned at sea. I loved the smattering of little chocolate chips and the animal cracker plunked victoriously on top of the whipped cream pillow. But as a teenager, I remember thinking that I had finally grown into a different kind of sundae: ah, Brownie Points, bringer of all things chocolate. A sundae for real chocolate lovers, what I decided I was. Much more refined. Much more sophisticated. Or so I thought. Then in college, I decided it was important to stay traditional, stay classic. I opted for the Hot Fudge Sundae. Simple, dependable: me.

Today, I’m back to Goodbye Mr. Chips. I smile at the teenagers working behind the counter–they weren’t even born when I first started ordering it. I smile looking at families with little kids staring at the menu in awe, wondering if they’ll be perched on a rotting wooden bench at thirty years old eating the same thing they order that day. I did notice something new on the sign as I took this photo: they’ve whited out all of the prices. Some things have to change, I suppose.

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