Nia
Google
I used to live on Dank Street, right near the corner of Victoria Avenue, when Jock’s Ice Cream first opened back in 2001. A hop, step and jump away. That was the start of a lifelong love affair - one that’s as indulgent as it is sentimental.
I’ve never been one to fake restraint at Jock’s. My only true addiction is ice cream. I start dreaming about flavour combination the moment the idea of the visit enters my mind. There can be heartbreak the second I arrive to find my favourite combo sold out. That’s when I call my therapist, not out of despair, but to process the emotional rollercoaster that comes with too many other good choices.
The ladies behind the counter know exactly what they’re doing, gently feeding my weakness with flavour suggestions that sound like poetry. My anxiety spikes in the best possible way: Hokey Pokey, lush with golden honeycomb pieces that melt like silk; the peanut butter and jam Obamarama, so divine it feels like a dance on my taste buds. I’m openly cheating on my other flavours, especially Pavlova and Turkish Delight, and somehow, it feels right. And those generous portions - they absolutely send me to flavourful heaven.
I don’t live around the corner anymore, but I still find my way back rain, hail or shine. I will always travel to Jocks (car, boat or jet) for the quality, flavour, comfort, the nostalgia and the taste of something that understands me. I’ve even developed a toxic trait - buying a few tubs “for the freezer,” whispering promises of self-control I never intend to keep. Because some loves, like this one, aren’t meant to be resisted. 🍦💛