Garlic Ice Cream

That… aroma!

It envelopes the summer breeze with the purity of ripe, succulent pineapple. But… not just pineapple chunks? Pineapple sorbet, with a tinge of six-minute-old waffle cone.

Oh, the summer time vibes are at a full time high. If I could just get my hands on some of that… beauty of a culinary dream. I continue to lick my raspberry sorbet roughly, each swipe of flavor in my mouth feels bitter and dry. Only pineapple could quench this need. Yes, pineapple combined with cane sugar and milk in a cold mixture is the only cure.

I lift my nose to the air, searching for the source. 
Finally, I found the source. A short boy bouncing past my right with an ease that could only be found with pineapple. His hair is this bed head, deep brown mess combined with saltwater; this is just unfortunate for this kid and whoever is related to him.

He turns his head slightly as some seagulls squawk over a soggy pizza slice in blue’s waves. And his face is… ugh.

I should have known that my arch nemesis would be my little brother. That “angel” that I am related to. He is a demon, truthfully, putting on a mask of this adorable mess to adults. But when I am with him alone, he becomes this power hungry monster for victory in battle. Always victory with the next new video game. Usually dancing games.

Maybe I should be giving him an applause. Having to hang out with him forced me to get a six pack from all the running and dancing even 60 seconds around him requires.

Lazily, he starts back towards our area. Mom and dad are out by the waves in the direction he was heading at first. But that one look back towards where I was is going to be his last mistake. 

How did he get that sorbet?

The shop said they were out. I guess not for little drama queens like him though.

He gulps down his sorbet like his life depends on it when he sees my face. My scowl combined with each bite of ice cream I take burns that whole facade into my face. It’s quite a lovely face I have, really. Neatly symmetrical, unlike my brother’s that is always painted with a chocolate mixture–or mud?

He walks over with that strut that each battle victory of his had ingrained into him. It was now a part of him, unfortunately.

And now, it is time to wipe that smirk off his face with a little thing called switcheroo. A little garlic powder on his next ice cream while he isn’t looking should do the trick… I’ll wait. No matter how long it takes.