Let’s see: We love Mitchell’s. And we love Stephanie. What better gift than a certificate to our favorite heladeria from our favorite software engineer? Well, that’s the trouble. We get out into the neighborhood a lot, and, well, it used to be, we’d be out and about and one of us would look at the other with a pumpkin-and-mexican-chocolate grin and we’d just say, “Mitchell’s”. Or we’d be driving back from the beach and somehow the word ‘macapuno’ or ‘halo halo’ would slip into conversation. Which wouldn’t be bad, because we’d just go to Mitchell’s and get some tasty South Pacific treat. Then came the gift certificate.
The concept behind gift certificates is great: it’s a recommendation and the means to take advantage of the recommendation, all in one. It says, “I like this, and you like this–so next time you’re doing this think of me.” So if I were to receive a gift card from, say, Bed Bath and Beyond, then when my neck was needing an ergonomic pillow or if my European coffee press suddenly seemed out of date I could just jump in the hybrid and find friend-inspired bliss at the sign of the third ‘B’.
But ice cream is sort of a spontaneous kind of thing. And these days when we’re out and about, we get to doing the Cinnamon Snap or I see Toasted Almonds in my lover’s eyes, the inevitable happens:
Did you bring it?
It’s on the fridge.
Damn.
The gift certificate (on the fridge) is dated 12/22/06. It’s been five months since we’ve had Grasshopper pie. What do you suggest?
