The High Sign

Final days of August, the dog days, are always hot, humid and unnerving -- what, summer is almost over? I lie low, work as little as possible, fix and serve summery lunches on the screened porch: here a favorite salad of shrimp, grapefruit and avocado with mustard-tanged dressing, and a glass of prosecco (sparkling dry wine, not quite champagne) to pay myself for being a good human.

Spooner's frozen custard, located up a steep driveway on a hilltop, is our local version of the famous St. Louis frozen custard called Ted Drewes'. My favorite sundae is called the "109-er" after the highway. One recent evening I went there. I am always alone. No one else is. This way I can concentrate on my ice cream. I order at the window, sit on one of the perforated metal benches and wait in the blanket-warm purple twilight until my sundae is ready and my name is called. Meantime I gaze at the green hills in the distance and up at the stars, slowly emerging like an understanding, and perhaps the moon, and listen to the passing trains. I look for the rabbit in the moon. Summer food, savoring summer -- is there anything better? Can it be late summer already? This August marks my 30th year in Missouri.

Missouri Loves Frozen Custard

This was the line at Spooner's frozen-custard stand on a Monday night in May. In Wisconsin we ate ice cream, but Missourians go for frozen custard. The differences: Ice cream is based on dairy products and has air whipped into it; frozen custard includes egg products as well as dairy, and is not whipped. In Missouri they also make "concretes," which is taking your sundae and all your mix-ins and blending them so you get a cup of smooth frozen stuff and can't tell what's in it unless you taste it. I want to see my custard, my hot-fudge sauce, marshmallow fluff, graham bits, whipped cream, nuts, and cherries, and sculpt 'em and blend 'em like a painter with my plastic spoon. Maybe when it's hotter, I'll have the banana split.