The Taste of Freedom

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Yesterday was hot in Hobart. Real hot. I left my Moonah office early with the soul purpose of heading to the local icecream emporium, Valhalla, to buy a large delicious scoop of my favourite -  salted caramel. Mmmmmm!
Outside the shop sitting on the bench seat is an older woman with a large icecream cone in hand.  She has the most youthful, joyous expression and as we glance towards each other, we both smile.  In that moment we are connected through the unspoken solidarity of mature women unashamedly eating large cones of good icecream on a hot day. Her legs are swinging like a young girl, so happy with her moment in the shade on a hot day.
I remember my ex mother in law telling me that as a young lady she, and her cohorts from the ladies college, were forbidden to eat icecream in public. I don’t think this was just about the risk of stains on uniforms. I suspect this was concerned for the moral fortitude of the young ladies and the risk that licking an icecream in public could have on the reputation of a pure soul. 
The other feeling I have when I finally order my double scoop cookies and cream and salted caramel in a waffle cone, is freedom. I stand on the side street of Moonah, waiting for the cars to pass and am conscious of myself, my icecream and the faces that look at me. Are they wishing for their own icecream? Are they questioning my purity? Are they thinking...’she shouldn’t be eating that. She should be eating a carrot stick.’ But I don’t care. I thoroughly enjoy every morsel of it. It makes me feel free, nourished and child like. 
This morning, I heard the news that after 37 years of rule, Robert Mugabe has finally stepped down as President of Zimbabwe. The reaction from the country was not unexpected as within moments of the announcement people filled the streets celebrating. The hope of a new found freedom and relief from almost 40 years of oppression and fear. It got me thinking about freedom, and my icecream. I know it sounds like a strange connection, but it was only 60 years ago in the US when black people were not allowed to eat vanilla icecream in public. And fewer years on mainland Australia, that my ex-mother in law and many other women couldn’t be seen enjoying any flavour icecream.
  
Michael W Twitty wrote an article about the subject in The Guardian in 2014...
By custom rather than by law, black folks were best off if they weren't caught eating vanilla ice cream in public in the Jim Crow South, except – the narrative always stipulates – on the Fourth of July. I heard it from my father growing up myself, and the memory of that all-but-unspoken rule seems to be unique to the generation born between World War I and World War II. (Excerpt and photograph from article published in The Guardian, 4th July, 2014)
The Norse myth tells the story of the Hall of Odin; Valhalla, a place where battle weary heroes go when they die. Perhaps heroes who fight for freedom. It’s a kind of happiness and heaven. Clearly a fitting destination for hot, tired warriors, but I suspect we wont be seeing Mugabe in line for a double scoop hokey pokey. So my advice is buy the icecream, get the one you want and take time to enjoy it. Because just like freedom it needs savouring.
Valhalla is on Albert Road, Moonah and is definitely worth a special trip. http://www.valhallaicecream.com.au/

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