just a little frozen yogurt–or a lot; we’re not judging here

I know it sounds a bit trendy–going to one of many self-serve yogurt places with fruitastic names or Utopian titles and believing that 34 cents an ounce for fro-yo is completely acceptable–but there’s many reasons one could reach out for the chilly treat.  In comparison to it’s denser and decadent counterpart (ice cream), one can convince his or her self that it is a nearly guilt-free delight and if one chooses the fruit flavors it actually goes toward your daily required fruits and vegetables; there’s also the simple reason of it sounded good, or because it lends its-self to the kind of communal gratification that bucking the star does.  There are various reasons for the craving, but I chose to indulge for the lowliest of reasons, however not uncommon, the need to console myself via food.  It’s a tragic reason and although I probably will not feel any better emotionally after consuming; I will, however, be completely satisfied by the epicurean masterpiece.

I do have a favorite studio to sculpt my digestion safe dessert.  I’ve tried many and many I have loved, but no more than I love Yogurt World.  Perhaps the reason I favor this venue is because of the near-death experience everyone who tries parking in the strip-mall parking lot is guaranteed to have–it just makes you feel as though you’ve earned a soothing sorbet as a reward.  I prefer to come during quiet times and skip the crowd, but won’t let the line out the door deter me from my mission.  The worst part of a crowded experience is watching the constant grazing.  I completely understand the tenacity behind a perfect developed cup of yogurt and that straying away from those dependable flavors is a difficult thing to do.  My problem is that this does not mean one should lose all sense of propriety and manners and go from one fountain to the next with an itty bitty paper-cup to prove that those well-developed layers of yogurt one always chooses are still the best in the lot.  But this is just me momentarily venting.  I shall continue…

After cautiously ignoring the larger cup and the family size bucket, I pick up a single-portioned cup to begin.  My selections are always the same three tried and true flavors and a wild card, always coming out as a new and improved Neapolitan.  Strawberry Tart at the bottom, followed by Vanilla Custard, and finished by Chocolate Custard.  The wild card may come in either between the Strawberry Tart and Vanilla Custard or a small kiss of a serving atop the Chocolate Custard.  Tonight’s wild card: Pomegranate and Raspberry Sorbet, inserted between the Strawberry Tart and Vanilla Custard.  As for toppings, I chose mini dark chocolate chips.  A fantastic textural addition!

Of course saying that creating it is only half the fun is an understatement.   Eating my frozen yogurt carries the majority of the fun responsibility.  I first begin the process similar to that of an oil driller.  I position my drill (or spoon for those without imagination) over the best possible terrain, usually towards the side of the container as to not disrupt the overall foundation as well as the toppings.  This method allows me to make my way careful to each layer without too much blending and mixing.  Just imagine that if I started at the center of the cup, flavors would of started melting and melding and become one big unidentifiable flavor which just isn’t my game!  That isn’t to say that I don’t like eating the flavors together, but I do like enjoying the natural progression of the layers.  Allow me to continue.  Once there is a clear pathway that reveals the four distinct and marvelous flavours, I can then hold the cup at its side (being mindful once again about the distribution of the toppings) and eat my yogurt as a painter might–in nice even strokes, ensuring that all layers are being consumed at the same rate.  Eventually, chaos does occur and if I ate correctly, I have a wonderful pool of chocolate covered fruit and cream and a couple extra bitter chips to cut the sweetness.

Completely satisfied.