When I was a teenager, I spent one summer washing dishes and busing tables at Gifford’s Ice Cream Parlor in Silver Spring, Maryland. I can still remember the relentless smell of melting ice cream mingling with the soapy scent of dishwashing detergent.
It was pretty disgusting. Honestly, I couldn’t eat ice cream all that summer. The thought of it made me queasy. I spent my...
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