Grandma, Buppa and I walk to Mr. Zelli’s ice cream shop, up two streets on the corner. Buppa likes the ice cream there. It’s special, called gelato. Mr. Zelli has ice cream for his L’Inglese and gelato for us. Buppa says it’s the best.
Buppa makes it a game. “What flavor is it, Gio?”
I answer quickly. That’s too easy.
“Which of Mr. Zelli’s helpers made this? Was it Antonio? Maybe Francesca? Or Anne? Who was it?”
I have to travel back through the flavor to feel the hands on the machine then go up the arms to feel the face. “Anne made this one.”
“Go ask Mr. Zelli. What does he say?”
Mr. Zelli watches Buppa and me play. I say “Anne?” and he looks at Buppa then back at me.
“You asking me or telling me, Gio?”
He laughs and nods.
He asks what’s my favorite flavor and sometimes I say “Paolo” or “Cozmo” because I feel the maker in the flavor.
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