Philly Magic
I still look at Philadelphia with the soft gaze of a tourist six years into my life here. There is so much beauty, if you know where to look. I own a house in South Philly, a far cry from my lives in New York City and San Francisco, two cities in which I came of age. I tend to see the best in my micro universe, despite the piles of trash or the man who smokes cigars in the dog run, if only because I want the best for it and for all of us. Philly was a purposeful respite from a loud, crowded existence; my husband and I were fortunate to find an apartment and start a new era here. Here in this city where you’re as likely to be run over as you are to have your car dug out during a freak blizzard by a stranger wearing head-to-toe Eagles gear, I walk out the door, day after day, expecting chaos and kinship in equal measure.
I feel a special tenderness toward Milk Jawn, a small-batch ice cream shop on one narrow corner of a notorious five-way intersection near me. The ice cream and the team that serves it have only ever brought me joy. It’s a white brick mecca steps from a pub, a suburb-size supermarket with a parking-lot farmers’ market on Wednesdays, and a smattering of other local shops and brick rowhouses. On the sidewalk outside of Milk Jawn, there are a few bright blue tables and chairs where families and friends sit and sample the latest Friday flavor drop as seen in an email (my husband) or on Instagram (me). Cereal Milk! Mint Stracciatella! Cookie Butter!
I’m lactose intolerant, as cruel fate would have it. And until Milk Jawn, I’d mostly given up on ice cream: It needs to be worth rolling the dice with a lactase tablet or two.
When vegan ice cream first became prevalent, I tried them all: Van Leeuwen, Jeni’s, Oatly, you name it. Some unique flavors, none overwhelmingly crystallized, many pricier than their dairy counterparts. In terms of texture, though, it wasn’t hard to tell which was which between the dairy and non-dairy varieties sold in scoop shops and in grocery stores. Most of it was just fine—perhaps a little watery, a little gritty, a little less likely to melt on your tongue.
From my first visit years ago, Milk Jawn tapped into my impossible kid vision of what ice cream can be. The vegan version of Thriller Night, a deep dark chocolate with raspberry jam swirled throughout, tastes just like the dairy equivalent: creamy and layered. Both takes on a Choco Taco are otherworldly. On a scientific level, one secret vegan weapon is their pea protein, which mimics dairy proteins by trapping water and air bubbles and preventing the formation of dreaded icy crystals. On an emotional level, it’s Milk Jawn’s commitment to community and consistency. This includes opting for thoughtful ingredients, like seasonal mint leaves.
In the hotter months, I walk around with my Milk Jawn–branded insulated pint carrier, just in case. I stop in, the waffle cone scent washing over me, hit the freezer case—maybe sample a dairy-only flavor first, like White Coffee or Birthday Cake. After, I like to stand outside and look south at the tiny lights strung between buildings in the distance, illuminating the sky, and remember that this too is Philly. There’s always someone yelling into their cell phone, a cyclist cursing an SUV at the crosswalk. In every way that matters, we all just got here. I have heaven in hand, and I’m bringing it home.
Jiordan Castle is the author of Disappearing Act, a memoir in verse. Her writing appears in The New Yorker, The Rumpus, and elsewhere, including the anthologies Best New Poets and What My Father and I Don’t Talk About. Originally from New York, she lives in Philadelphia with her husband and their dog. Rainbow cookies are her favorite.
