When I go to Ponderosa, no matter how little room I have left in my stomach, I always make an obligatory stop at the sundae bar. The custard dispensers, the tub of fluffy whipped cream, the chocolate and rainbow sprinkles, the ladle that you can use to drizzle chocolate syrup over all of it. . . a trip to Ponderosa would not be complete without that.
I noticed lately, though, that I wasn't getting as much enjoyment out of my sundae as I'd anticipated. Nor was it just because of the absence of sticky caramel sauce (which, alas, this Ponderosa did not have). The ice cream just didn't taste as good as I love to remember. I wonder if anything ever tastes as good as it did when you were a kid. I don't know if it's possible.
When I was small, my grandparents would take me and my sister to the Ponderosa near their house for dinner. It felt like such a big deal -- the kind of occasion I'd look forward to all day. After all, for kids, it just doesn't take all that much. Everything seems new and fresh and magical when you're that age. I liked the paintings on the walls. I liked the little corridor that led down to the restrooms. I liked the exhilaration of standing in line at the counter and gazing up at the vivid, colorful pictures on the posted menu. I loved the plump, buttery rolls at the buffet and -- of course -- the sundae bar to cap it all off. It just seemed to me like a perfect experience.
Most of the time, I don't look at the world that way anymore. There comes a day, you don't really know when it happens, but you stop looking at the pictures on the menu and start eyeing the prices instead. You pick up one of the juicy rolls and mentally calculate how many minutes of jogging it might take to burn this baby off. Maybe you even grumble about the crowdedness, the service, the wait, the fact that the table is way too close to the swinging kitchen door.
It's not a totally hopeless situation, though, this whole "getting-older" business. I like to tell myself that, anyway, because when I go to Ponderosa and glance around, I get short-lived, glimmering flashbacks of the person I once was.
Maybe that's why I still insist on making the sundae bar a part of my rare Ponderosa visits. It means something to me today because I loved it all those years ago. It represents something I'm not ready to give up just yet. I suspect I'm eating a sundae more for the memories than for how it actually tastes. And maybe, just maybe, on those days when everything else seems routine and rushed and easily taken for granted, there's nothing necessarily wrong with that.
I noticed lately, though, that I wasn't getting as much enjoyment out of my sundae as I'd anticipated. Nor was it just because of the absence of sticky caramel sauce (which, alas, this Ponderosa did not have). The ice cream just didn't taste as good as I love to remember. I wonder if anything ever tastes as good as it did when you were a kid. I don't know if it's possible.
When I was small, my grandparents would take me and my sister to the Ponderosa near their house for dinner. It felt like such a big deal -- the kind of occasion I'd look forward to all day. After all, for kids, it just doesn't take all that much. Everything seems new and fresh and magical when you're that age. I liked the paintings on the walls. I liked the little corridor that led down to the restrooms. I liked the exhilaration of standing in line at the counter and gazing up at the vivid, colorful pictures on the posted menu. I loved the plump, buttery rolls at the buffet and -- of course -- the sundae bar to cap it all off. It just seemed to me like a perfect experience.
Most of the time, I don't look at the world that way anymore. There comes a day, you don't really know when it happens, but you stop looking at the pictures on the menu and start eyeing the prices instead. You pick up one of the juicy rolls and mentally calculate how many minutes of jogging it might take to burn this baby off. Maybe you even grumble about the crowdedness, the service, the wait, the fact that the table is way too close to the swinging kitchen door.
It's not a totally hopeless situation, though, this whole "getting-older" business. I like to tell myself that, anyway, because when I go to Ponderosa and glance around, I get short-lived, glimmering flashbacks of the person I once was.
Maybe that's why I still insist on making the sundae bar a part of my rare Ponderosa visits. It means something to me today because I loved it all those years ago. It represents something I'm not ready to give up just yet. I suspect I'm eating a sundae more for the memories than for how it actually tastes. And maybe, just maybe, on those days when everything else seems routine and rushed and easily taken for granted, there's nothing necessarily wrong with that.
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