I scream

When we were house hunting for our first home, the realtor took me to scores of houses, countless open house buffets and far too many McMansion showcases. But one hot day, discouraged, she showed us the way to Theno’s Dairy. Theno’s is an old, independent dairy, a holdover from Redmond’s rural days, complete with the fiberglass cow out front (she used to be on the roof, but now is wheeled indoors at night, the victim of one too many senior pranks). Their milk still comes in glass bottles, and their ice cream, Vivian’s Pride, is the best ice cream I have ever had. Hands down. Over the years, we became such familiar faces that the owners, Sandy and the gruff bearded Leroy, knew to look for Darling Husband’s favorite flavor when he walked in the door. Sandy would often have a half gallon of banana nut set aside in the corner of the deep freeze just for him. (There was a terrible dry spell when she couldn’t get bananas for a month and he had to make due with Marion berry cheesecake swirl.) They have seen us progress from newlyweds to parents; from yuppies to forty-somethings. We have watched them age as well, mourned Leroy’s premature passing, and seen their kids grow to take over the business.

A few years ago, Number One Son’s then first grade class went strawberry picking down the road at the South 47 Farm. Chatting with the teacher at the farm stand, we decided that there were more than enough berries to share with the whole school, and that ice cream would be the perfect accompaniment. The lucky souls in my carpool were subjected to a visit to the fiberglass bovine, where the kids slurped on mint chocolate chip and Mackinac Island cones while Leroy took our order for a three-gallon container of vanilla. “Since it’s for your school” he said, “I’ll give you the wholesale price.”

I received the seasonal phone call from school yesterday: would I be able to procure ice cream for the now traditional end-of-school ice cream social? When I told the boys and they had finished their rather loud happy dance, Number One Son asked timidly if we could go to the trendy new place in the mall. You know, the latest national chain that hires uniformed teens to recite scripted dialogue and smash candy into ice cream? No way, said I, we’re going to Theno’s.

You see, we started going there because the ice cream was incredibly good. We keep coming back because the ice cream was incredibly good and the people are friendly. We like it there: we love the rural setting, the fiberglass cow and the plethora of cow kitsch. We kept coming back long before we were principled to patronize our local businesses over national big box retailers, before we looked to the seasons to dictate our diet. And yet their cheesy reader board counts down the days until their refreshing cantaloupe ice cream arrives every year (around July first, depending on the weather). The pumpkin ice cream (think pie in a cone) comes from organic pumpkins you can see growing across the street.

We headed there yesterday after school, before the highschoolers descended. The cow has a fresh coat of paint (her udder sports a fetching color of pink this year). It is a sure sign of spring, catching up with Sandy and all the news, slurping up midnite chocolate, and ordering two three-gallon tubs for the end of school. The reader board reminds us that “ice cream is brain food: the more you eat, the smarter we think you are,” but it will change soon to the annual “congrats, RHS grads!” followed by the cantaloupe countdown, as it has every year. Now why would anyone want to go anywhere else?