When I was a kid, ice cream outings with my family were a big deal. My brother and I would practically vibrate with excitement as we pressed our noses against the cold glass of the ice cream counter, our eyes wide with anticipation. The shop was a kaleidoscope of colors and flavors—Rocky Road, Mint Chocolate Chip, Cookie Dough, and Bubblegum—all swirling in a creamy dreamland. My brother and I would always choose something wild and colorful, eager to taste the most outrageous combinations.

My Dad was different. Every time, without fail, he would simply smile at the server and say, “Just a vanilla cone, please.”

This became a running joke between my brother and me. “What flavor do you think Dad will get this time?” one of us would ask, feigning seriousness. The other would pretend to ponder for a moment before declaring, “Definitely vanilla!” We’d laugh, as if the punchline had changed somehow even though it never did.

Our dad would just smile, accepting our good-natured teasing with a quiet grace. While we dug into our double scoops of everything-but-the-kitchen-sink, he’d savor his plain vanilla cone, licking it slowly as if it were the most exquisite thing in the world. To us, it was just plain old vanilla—safe, boring, predictable.

As the years went by, ice cream outings became less frequent. My brother and I grew up, went off to college, started jobs, and lived our lives. The world became more complex, full of responsibilities and uncertainties that we never could have imagined as kids. The simple joys of childhood, like the excitement of choosing an ice cream flavor, became distant memories.

It wasn’t until I was much older, sitting at an ice cream shop with my own children, that I began to understand. My daughter, like me at her age, stood on tiptoe to peer into the ice cream case, marveling at the myriad options. Slowly I passed by the rainbow sherbet, rocky road, and mint chocolate chip. I hesitated at the double fudge brownie batter and glanced solemnly at the very berry strawberry. Strangely I found myself gravitating toward vanilla, the flavor I’d once found so uninteresting.

 I looked up at the server and said, “Just a vanilla cone, please.”

I sat there, enjoying my vanilla cone while my daughter dug into her rainbow-colored creation. I smiled as the chocolate syrup from my son’s double fudge Oreo cookies and cream sundae dripped down the corners of his mouth. And then, it hit me. Vanilla wasn’t just a flavor to my dad—it was a small, reliable pleasure in a world that was often unpredictable. It was a reminder that sometimes, simplicity is the best choice, that there’s beauty in consistency and comfort in tradition.

Maybe my dad’s choice of vanilla was his way of anchoring himself in a world that was constantly changing, a quiet rebellion against the chaos. Maybe it was his way of savoring the moment, of finding joy in the little things. And maybe, just maybe, it was his way of teaching us that life doesn’t always have to be flashy or complicated to be good.

I smiled as I took another bite of my vanilla cone, finally understanding why my dad had always chosen it. And when my daughter looked up at me and asked, “What flavor do you think Grandpa would get if he were here?” I didn’t have to think twice.

“Definitely vanilla,” I said, and we both laughed, as if the punchline had changed somehow.