God bless America, land of lard-flavored ice cream. You know it’s out there somewhere.
We’re blessed to have so many choices in our nation, but really -- have you tried to buy ice cream lately?
The people at Publix still talk about my last meltdown (no pun intended.) There I stood in the mile-long “frozen desserts” aisle, alternately shivering and sweating bullets. Trying to pick a flavor was like trying to decide which digit I’d rather chop off. I couldn’t do it.
There was Viennese Vanilla, Coconut Crunch, Tutti-Fruitti, Brown Sugar Blast, Death by Chocolate, Peach Power, Blueberry Hill, Rum-Raisin-Ripple, Pecan Praline, Turtle Tracks, Moose Tracks, Raspberry Rush, Cherry-Chocolate Chip, Caramel Cheesecake, Sassy Strawberry Swirl, Dutch Boy Chocolate, Macadamia Mania, Oh, Fudge! Lemon Twist, Gingersnap, etc. etc.
Not to mention fat-free ice cream, double-churned ice cream, gelato, frozen yogurt, popsicles, ice cream sandwiches, frozen bonbons and “Dippin’ Dots,” which is apparently ice cream designed to replicate the experience of eating buckshot. The only flavor not represented was fatback.
When I was a little girl in the sticks, we couldn’t afford ice cream; we ate Pet brand ice milk. Vanilla or chocolate only, by my father’s decree. Neopolitan ice cream was deemed both expensive and exotic.
“Only Italians like Neopolitan ice cream,” Daddy proclaimed. (He also believed all red-haired people had six toes.)
When Mama suddenly rebelled and switched to lime sherbet in her mid-40s, Daddy almost had a nervous breakdown.
“Why, Sarah, why?” he said.
“Because you’re a deacon and I can’t drink,” she replied (which was true for many years, until the day she said, “You know what I forgot? I’m Episcopalian. Pass the wine.” And that was that.)
The last time I found myself stranded on the ice cream aisle, I called Widdle Baby in a panic.
“I can’t decide,” I moaned.
“Do this,” he said calmly. “Walk away. We don’t need it.”
I saw a bright light and heard the Hallelujah Chorus. Then I had a brainstorm. Instead of ice cream I’d buy chocolate -- because, like red wine and coffee, it’s supposed to be one of those bad habits that will extend your life.
It’s probably happened to you: You’re schlepping through the grocery store and are suddenly gripped by nostalgia. (Happens to me all the time.) You decide to stroll down Memory Lane and enjoy a simple chocolate bar.
Good luck with that.
Once upon a time there were two choices: Hershey’s and Nestle’s — plain, almond, or crackly crisped rice. Then came Mr. Goodbar — a shocking blend of chocolate and chopped peanuts!
I was faithful to Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups for years, until Mounds and Almond Joy came along. Then Oh, Henry! sneaked in, and that was all she wrote. Now I’m anybody’s girl: Twix, Fifth Avenue, Kit-Kat, you name it. Any port in a storm, I say.
Today’s chocolate bar is about as simple as a United Nations treaty. You must choose between domestic and imported, dark or milk (cow or soy?), bitter or semisweet, plain or truffled, flat or filled (with hazelnuts, almonds, walnuts, caramel, raspberry, mint, blueberry, Nutella, figs?) scored or whole, and so it goes.
So what I did was buy a bag of Double-Stuf Oreos and a jug of milk. That, my friends, is America.

Julie R. Smith, who also can’t choose a pair of tennis shoes, can be reached at widdleswife@aol.com.