On comfort foods and stressful people…

Twenty years ago, I played Outburst for the first time with my husband’s family.

One of the questions prompted us to guess the top ten comfort foods.

“Ice cream! Candy Bar!

Chocolate!” I yelled out.

His family scrunched their faces and cocked their heads at me quizzically.

“Um, grits, cream of wheat, macaroni and cheese,” his mother said.

“Oh, and I love a hot bowl of mashed potatoes when I’m feeling blue,” his sister added.

What?

Wait, what?

Ice cream is and always has been the ultimate comfort food. I hardly even need an excuse anymore to indulge.

Got good grades? Ice cream reward!

Landed a huge client? Ice cream celebration!

Woke up and lounged in pajamas all day? You deserve ice cream!

So imagine my delight last month when I received a text promo from Yogurt Mountain. (Don’t be deceived. Regardless of its shifty name, it counts as ice cream.)

“Buy One Get One Free!

Good through the weekend!” the ad boasted.

Always tempted by a good deal, I loaded up the kids — six of my own and four strays — and headed to Yogurt Mountain in Memphis to celebrate, um, owning a large vehicle.

Yeah, that’s it.

The store concept rivals any ice cream social your church has ever hosted.

They provide massive cups the size of cowboy hats, into which you pile your choice of flavored frozen yogurt and a bajillion toppings. They charge by the ounce: I have topped a pound in the past.

I usually fill my kids’ cups to avoid paying the equivalent of a car payment, but because I had the special coupon, I sent them in with abandon, sample cups flying, treats galore.

YoMo weighs the cups at the cash register for payment, but because we were all one party, the cashier allowed the kids to weigh their cups as they became ready, save the information, and consume their creations as the slower ones brought up the rear. By the time I had arrived to pay, the first kids had nearly finished their food.

“Are you ready for the damage?” she asked.

Continued on Page 9 MARION MOM (cont.)

“Oh, I have this great coupon,” I said, showing her the text on my phone.

“Well, you have to input it here,” she replied, pointing to a fabulously techy machine. I just stared at it with a smile frozen on my face. “I’ll do it for you,” she said.

After a few button pushes, something printed out, and she deftly applied the discount

be $54.95.”

Fifty what’s-it now?! Ice cream is comfort food, not stress-over-my-credit-cardbill food!

“That coupon didn’t work?” I asked.

“Oh, it did,” she responded, “But it’s buy ONE get ONE free.”

“That’s not a problem,” I said, probably rolling my eyes. “If that’s the case, I will buy ONE five times.”

… still smiling on the outside.

“But it’s single use,” she said.

My eyes widened.

“That’s not what my text said. And it’s not like I can change my mind — the product has been consumed. We can’t just leave it,” I fumed.

“There’s nothing I can do,” she said.

“Well maybe your manager can help me,” I said, noting the line of couples piling up behind this confrontation. “She’s outside.”

I paused. “I can wait while you go get her.”

The manager kindly ended her personal phone call and repeated the phrase, “There’s nothing I can do.” MARION MOM (cont.)

She added, “Maybe you should contact corporate.”

Sigh.

I checked and rechecked the text coupon I had received to make sure I wasn’t in the wrong: It didn’t mention a single restriction or have a link to a page that did.

Why do I always gallop into these situations? Why does customer service in Memphis make me want to stuff a gummy worm into my ears and switch to online shopping forever?

I want y’all to know, I did contact corporate in a professionally stern manner, if I do say so myself. I am so thrilled to report that they apologized for the error and recompensed with a gift card surpassing the extra amount I spent.

And a T-shirt. “Hashtag” winning.

On a related note, our local Burger King might as well not even have an ice cream machine. I go once a month (allergy shots? Ice cream will soothe it!), and I have yet to receive a positive reply. Last month, they even had a flashing neon sign around the drive-thru microphone that said, “Try our new OREO SHAKE!”

Yeah, I’d like to see you try! Mwahahaha.

My daughter likes ice cream, too, but mac’n ’ cheese would top her list of comfort foods as well.

Seeing as how she’s 12, she can handle boiling a box of macaroni and mixing in cheese and milk. As if that’s not easy enough, she requested recently that I purchase the microwave single-serve cups.

I conceded.

Sigh. Lazy kids.

Anyway, about a week later, I came home to the smell of burnt popcorn. As I walked in the door, my daughter assaulted me with a shout, “Mom! That microwave mac’n’cheese you bought tastes terrible!”

I wiped the tears from my stinging eyes. “Why do you say that?”

“Look!” She shoved the paper bowl under my nose, prickling my face with blackened putrescence.

“Well, shees, darling, it looks like you forgot to add water,” I calmly replied, hastily retreating.

She stopped. “You’re supposed to add water?”

Sigh. Well, there’s still hope. She could always be a manager at Yogurt Mountain.

My baby girl isn’t doing too much better. We recently donated canned goods to the Hope House Ministries because they were completely out. At Small-mart, Baby Girl reached a fever pitch tantrum begging to taste the canned goods before we donated them.

“Pleeeeease!” she said.

“Please let me have just one!”

I asked, “Why do you care so much? It’s just tuna and vegetables!”

“Oh,” she said, suddenly quiet. “Then why do they call them ‘goods,’ if they’re not good?”

Now when they figure out how to put ice cream in a can, that’ll certainly earn the favorable nomenclature.

Plus, I’ll be able to order it online.

That, friends, will be #winning

Dorothy Wilson lives in Marion with her husband Chris as they enjoy all the adventures their seven children provide. This column originally appeared in the October 2017 edition of the Marion Ledger.