At Barnes and Nobles the other day, I picked up a GQ for the first time ever.  I picked it up only because Alexander Skarsgard was looking delectable on the cover, but once I had it in my hands, I perused it with anthropological interest.  I always imagined that men’s magazines would be sort of barbaric and foreign, with short simple words in articles lacking adjectives; I’m not sure why, but my idea of masculinity apparently involves a certain level of illiteracy. Men do not ready; they use books as kindling to start fires over which they roast dead animals they killed with their bare hands. Because that’s what modern men are like.  I was pleasantly surprised by the caliber of the writing, which I say knowing that I sound unforgivable condescending.

What really surprised me, though, was the content.  One of the first articles I came across extolled the virtues of a designer who had created the perfect pair of shorts: sitting low in the waist, with the perfect length and stylish colors. I had understood to some extent that GQ was a fashion magazine, but what I didn’t realize is that it is ultimately Cosmo for boys. Rather than lipsticks and sandals, it advised men on what dogs they should have, what shorts to wear, and how to wear their hair. It was shocking and thrilling to find “proof” that men could be as frivolous and vain as women.

One article that genuinely caught my interest though was about the ridiculous ice cream scene in New York City, where the new fad of high-end organic ice cream that drove the cost of a single cone into the double digits. Rather than shell out for exorbitantly priced cones, the author purchased an ice cream maker and made delicious gourmet ice cream at home.

The genius of it apparently lodged in my brain, because when J-ko’s birthday came a week later, I instantly decided that I wanted to get him an ice cream machine.  I was a little leery of purchasing it for him though because he frequently disagrees with me about the usefulness of certain kitchen gadgets (he refused to invest in a zester, insisting that it wasn’t necessary, but deemed a potato ricer — the use of which has yet to be explained to me satisfactorily — worthy of purchase).  He’s also the kind of person who secretly owns a food dehydrator, so it seemed entirely possible that he owned an ice cream maker without my knowledge. Ultimately, I got him an inferior gift and then asked him about it directly while we were at an electronic store and purchased it in front of him. Classy, I know.

As we left the store with it awkwardly under my arm, we started listing all the flavors of ice cream we would make. Chocolate mint and rum and all kinds of fruit and the chocolate basil I’d seen advertised at a custard shop in the U-district but hadn’t gotten to try. At his birthday dinner, J-ko announced himself currently enthralled with fennel, and I suggested that he make fennel ice cream. He scoffed, but not 10 minutes later our waiter brought out a plate of fennel ice cream for Hime, who’d gotten the tasting menu. It was light and smooth and delicately flavored. And also delicious. J-ko still hasn’t gotten behind my chocolate and basil idea, but if the fennel can work, I don’t see why the basil shouldn’t.

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