Abstinence Makes the Taste Buds Grow Fonder

How a medically-decreed moratorium on ice cream made me love it all the more.

I have butterfat flowing through my veins, and I have the documents to prove it.

A few years ago, I was happily gathering information for an article I was writing about ice cream, perhaps God’s greatest gift to mankind after elastic waistbands and Hacks. While dipping away in batches of homemade heaven (research, of course), the phone rang.

“David, it’s Dr. Newton.” I had had some routine blood work done the week before, and my doctor was calling with the results.

“Everything looks normal,” she said in even, modulated tones. Then, an involuntary intake of breath: “Except for your cholesterol. It’s a bit elevated—252.”

Two hundred and fifty-two? Two hundred and fifty-two? That’s in the danger-Will Robinson zone. It should be well under 200, she informed me.

I was on a tear developing and—and eating—batches and batches of ice cream—the one thing people regularly (and for good reason) cite as being better than sex.

The spoonful of hazelnut crunch hovered before my mouth. I contemplated lapping it up, but this felt too diabolical considering Dr. Newton’s pronouncement. So I just stood there dazed as it dripped onto my sandals.

Then came the death knell: “I think it’s something you can get under control with diet and exercise.” Diet and exercise? Didn’t she know I consider Häagen-Dazs Dulce de Leche to be its own food group? How could I possibly diet?—I have an article to write. And exercise? Please, setting a table for eight leaves me winded.