My favorite fruit is in ice cream.

If you know me, this makes sense. Not one to salivate over the thought of a peach, I’m Pavlov’s most attentive dog when I hear that magical sound in the kitchen. A knife cutting into a ripe apple? Nope. A juicer blending citrus into a frothy drink? Uh-huh. No, give me the steady whirring of a homemade ice cream maker that sounds like a small train coming off its tracks and I’m a kid again eating mom’s Tutti Fruitti dessert.

This sweet allegedly contains fruit, an ingredient which mom loosely interpreted. Typically, pineapples, dates and raisins are an essential part of the recipe. But, mom was more Tutti than Fruitti. She used sugar, lots of it. And milk. However, I don’t recall a single piece of fruit. Mom’s version was more fruitish. I remember tasty specks of something that resembled cherries buried in the frozen concoction, but that could have been cherry licorice from the pantry.

Still, this mouthwatering ice cream drove us straight to the kitchen. Mom kept a batch ready for guests like Martha Stewart’s good-to-go Foie Gras for the rich and famous. My friends made a bee-line to the freezer, only stopping to grab spoons from the drawer. Often, we ate directly from the frozen container with nary a concern for communal-eating health risks. It was so worth it.

Ocala once had a popular ice cream place just off Silver Springs Boulevard called “Boss’s Ice Cream Shoppe,” spelled “the British way” according to Dad because we all knew Anglican ice cream set the gold standard. They had exotic flavors like Rocky Road, Caramel Butter Pecan and, my favorite, Bubblegum, a Pepto-Bismol pink ice cream chocked full of multi-colored gum. Nectar for the Gods! And for sugar-craving high school students! Luckily, Boss’s was a one-block walk from high school, making this a popular afternoon hangout.

Mom sensed the competition. One day, I came home from school to find her furiously chopping what looked like Chiclet’s gum on her cutting board because she was actually cutting Chiclet’s gum on her cutting board. She sliced and diced with the finesse of Julia Child as white pieces of the hard-coated gum flew off the board and onto the floor, the counter, and mom’s hair.

“Hi, honey, hand me the rock salt,” mom said not looking up while chop-chop-chopping in rhythmic staccato.

A few hours later, mom presented Dad and me with her frozen piece de resistance: Chiclet’s ice cream parfaits with an intricate multi-layered creation of ice cream, whipped cream, ice cream, whipped cream, and more ice cream topped off with a dollop of whipped cream and, you guessed it, a Chiclet delicately placed in its center. The gum was so frozen, so cold, it made my teeth hurt.

Pure Heaven.

Dad wasn’t so sure.

“I think I like your Tutti Fruitti better,” he said with the hesitation of a husband who knew better.

Mom furrowed her Chiclet-coated brow, looked offended for about a second, then sprinted to the freezer rushing back to the table.

“Here! Try this!” Mom said excitedly. “It’s a Tutti Fruitti parfait!”

Indeed it was, complete with a topping of whipped cream and what appeared to be a piece of cherry licorice in the middle.

C’est magnifique!

My favorite kind of fruit on my favorite kind of day, sitting around the table with mom, dad and a healthy frozen heaping of love.