When I was a kid, grade-school age, my mom studied at a college in a town two hours’ drive from where we lived. (Sidenote: when I got old enough to drive it myself, I discovered that the drive really takes most people only one hour, but my mom’s leisurely manner of driving is a topic for another post.) Sometimes, maybe two or three times per semester, we kids would get to tag along on one of her trips to the big city. Our little town had a population of just under one thousand, which made a day in a town with more than twenty-thousand inhabitants a Very Big Deal, and I remember those occasions as exciting almost beyond belief.

There would be shopping at K-Mart and Payless Shoes and maybe even at the mall. There would be Happy Meals at McDonald’s or mounds of golden, deep-fried shrimp from the all-you-can-eat buffet at Skipper’s. All our errands done, we might walk around the college campus or go down to the river or pay a visit to some of my mom’s friends, but on the very best days we got something extra.

On a tree-lined street not far from the college was a little mom-and-pop ice cream parlor. It was called Noel’s or Knowell’s or something along those lines that I’m a little ashamed I can’t remember more precisely. In fact, I can’t remember much more about the actual shop than the large blackboard menu behind the counter. What I do remember is the ice cream. Oh, the ice cream.

They had what seemed an endless variety of homemade, old-fashioned hard ice cream, in flavors that boggled my eight-year-old country bumpkin’s mind. Peppermint and pecan swirl and bright pink bubble-gum (it tasted just like liquid penicillin, minus that medicine-y aftertaste — heaven). Tin roof sundae and rocky road and more and more and more, with long, strange-sounding names that baffled and thrilled me. The absolute best, though, had a name that was short and sweet: licorice. I had never seen or heard of such a thing as licorice ice cream, but the moment I read that artfully chalked name on the blackboard, I knew I had to have it.

I do remember the first time I ordered it, the proprietor said in gently discouraging voice, “It’s black licorice.” I told him I was sure that was what I wanted, but he still looked a bit doubtful as he handed over my cone. The ice cream was dark and alien-looking, purple-black with darker streaks running through it. I admit to being a bit skeptical myself at the sight of it, and I know I hesitated ever-so-slightly before the first taste. I dreaded making a fool of myself before the adults and my older cousins, and–even worse–having ruined my treat with a bad pick. Money was tight, and I knew without being told that if I didn’t like what I’d chosen, there wouldn’t be another chance. My uncertainty was all for naught, however. It was the best ice cream I had ever tasted, and from that day on I ordered it every single time we went there.

Once my mom finished school, we didn’t go to Knowell’s anymore. We still went to the big city several times a year, but rarely had occasion to be in that part of town. After a while, I suppose we all forgot about it. Now and then I would think a little wistfully of that licorice ice cream, but mostly I’d put it out of my mind. I never saw, or even heard of, licorice ice cream anywhere else, and new flavors like Goo Goo Cluster and Cookies ‘n’ Cream crept in and took over its place in my heart.

Then I moved to Sweden.

Swedes, as it happens, are crazy for licorice (and there’s no such distinction as “black licorice” and “red licorice” here — it’s all black). Unfortunately, they also like salt on their candy, and most of the licorice to be found here is of the salty variety. Having been tricked one too many times by innocuous-looking black candy, I was leery of the licorice-flavored ice cream I saw in cold cases here and there. I didn’t want to get my hopes up only to have them dashed by a mouthful of salty yuck, so I passed it up again and again, settling for blueberry or rum raisin or some other less-than flavor.

One day last summer, however, it all got to be too much for me. Lydia and I were in Stockholm’s Central Station waiting for a bus to the airport. It was scorching hot and I was heavily pregnant, and I could no longer resist the call of the licorice ice cream. Fearing I would regret it, but this time having enough money in my purse for a do-over if needed, I ordered two scoops of black-streaked licorice ice cream. And never looked back. I have to say, it’s not quite as good as the über treat of my youth (but, really, is anything ever?), but it’s damn tasty all the same.

This evening Lydia and I walked to the little kiosk here in town, where she got a slushie and I splurged on a three-scoop waffle cone.

“All three scoops licorice?” the server asked a little incredulously.

“Yep,” I told her.

She gave me a knowing smile and said, “Licorice must be your favorite.” I had a feeling that she had met others like me, and it gave me an unexpected feeling of belonging in my adopted homeland.

“Absolutely,” I said, as I accepted my cone, and as I left, we both knew I’d be back.