Mrs. Carpenter, the new neighbor from Maplewood, brought a tub of ice cream. Strawberry, Ben & Jerry's, with chocolate chunks. Five dollars a pint.
'For your kids,' she told Sarah Miller. 'In this heat!'
Sarah thanked her. Put the tub in the icehouse (not a fridge — an icehouse, real ice, cut from the pond in winter). Called the children.
Six Miller children sat at the table. Sarah spooned ice cream into bowls. Children tasted.
Benjamin, seven: 'Too sweet.' Hannah, nine: 'Smells like chemicals.' Levi, twelve: 'Mom's is better.' Little Ruth, four, ate three spoonfuls and said: 'Want milk.' Regular. Cow's. From Nellie.
Sarah finished the rest herself. (She liked it. She told no one.)
That evening Sarah made her own: cream from Nellie, strawberries from the garden, honey from the apiary, ice from the icehouse. No recipe — hands know how much of what. Children ate it all. Benjamin asked for seconds. Ruth licked the bowl.
When Mrs. Carpenter asked a week later: 'How did the kids like the ice cream?' — Sarah smiled: 'Very much. Thank you.' Because truth can be rude, and Sarah — never.