The Potty Mouth Granny

The weirdest things can unlock childhood memories. Yesterday, a friend mentioned how his mother used to eat black walnut ice cream, and suddenly a whole flood of memories came rushing back to me—uninvited, vivid, and sweet in that bittersweet way only the past knows how to be.

Memory is funny like that. It doesn’t knock. It just kicks the door in, smelling like summer, sugar, and something you didn’t realize you’d been carrying all these years.

Now I’m sitting here, slowly eating a bowl of black walnut ice cream, and as I savor the taste and the texture, I can see myself eating it with my mother. With my grandmother. With my Aunt Maggie. Cleo.

Each spoonful feels like a small reunion—faces long gone, laughter hovering in the air, love folded quietly into something as ordinary as ice cream. Funny how a simple flavor can turn into a family album, how the past can melt so gently on the tongue and remind you exactly where you come from.