When I was a kid, we had a massive chest freezer down in our cellar. You could nearly fit a whole unquartered cow inside of that beast, but for our American family of seven it was instead populated by microwave meals and bags of frozen vegetables that did nothing for my mental register. For the five of us children, however, the most exciting frozen food in there was the ice cream.

The times were many when I’d slip down the bare wooden stairs in order to lift the big flat handle and do some fishing. Invariably, a carton of Neapolitan ice cream—the kind that I’m not confident exists in Naples—would be sitting at the bottom. The half-gallon container offered a three-in-one of chocolate, vanilla and strawberry with each flavour represented in a distinctly-colored shade. I always loved peeling back the lid for the first time because you could behold the ephemeral beauty that was an unscathed surface of stripey dairy perfection.

But I was a picky child. All I ever wanted was the chocolate part of the Neapolitan. If I was really jonesing for ice cream and the chocolate was gone, then I might dig into the unexciting vanilla. As for the strawberry flavor or anything else I found that looked fruity—well I never had any time for that.

The problem with my tastes was that I lived in a house where everyone would probably survive off of ice cream if the FDA said it was a good idea. Consequently, this meant that a trip to the freezer would often end in disappointment. Opening a carton of open Neapolitan ice cream was a bit like playing a crooked game of roulette: you pop open the lid will only be greeted with a solitary, undisturbed tranche of pink ice cream. No one in my family wanted much to do with the strawberry either. Instead, that flavor would just sit and cling to the right-hand side of the carton until ice crystals started to grow a protective coating and Mom brought home a re-supply. Thanks, Mom. 

But as I grew older, I slowly became exposed to a more diverse array of flavors and experiences. I only grew to appreciate strawberry and all fruits when I was in my late 20s. As a 16-year-old living in France, I was insufferable as families glowered at me as I continually rehearsed “Je n’aime pas les fruits” at each meal. No strawberry ice cream, not even those French strawberries—the kind that the French insisted would make me a true fruit convert. That was never meant to happen. I was too stubborn and instead loved the depth of flavor found in the non-fruit varieties of Carte d’Or .

These days I still really love ice cream—but I appreciate that I have managed to diversify my tastes. I love fig ice cream, I’ve even tried lobster ice cream (exactly once) and I’m currently enjoying an addiction to non-dairy açaí bowls. Last week I gave melon sorbet a try while dining in an Israeli restaurant. To quote my dining companion, the dessert was “refreshingly palate cleaning” but neither of us had much interest in scraping to the bottom of the bowl. It might not have been earth-shattering, but we at least appreciated the experience.

In this same vein, I was recently told that my overall perspective on things was not exactly American. Instead I tended to navigate my day using a mix of various customs and interests. In this way I understood what the person was trying to say, but it also struck me as a bit of a revelation. Since the first time I went abroad, I have never managed to feel as though I really fit neatly into a single box. I love a little bit of everything—but at the same time, the experience of a Neapolitan mix isn’t something I reach for either. Sure it offers variety, but at the same time, I find it a little boring.

Since my years as freezer-diving child and with every follow-on experience out in the world, I now find a surprising ease that comes with sharing a table with people who don’t share the same passport. I love that I can sit through a meeting or stand on a street corner and lose sense of the fact that New England English isn’t being spoken. Even better, it’s great when I partake in conversation and someone teaches me a new expression from his or her culture, or perhaps they bring in a savory lunch called “sandwichcake” comprising layers of tuna, shrimp and eggs and rye bread. Eat your heart out, Neapolitan. Everyone tries a piece of the sandwichcake.

Some of my German friends have been trying to get me to learn this fantastic phrase for months: Hoch die Hände Wochenende!! (I translate it as “Throw your hands in the air, it’s the weekend!) I really love it, but the clusters of unfamiliar German sounds and letters have not yet managed to stick into my brain. I revert back to what is familiar. The chocolate, vanilla and strawberry. I can’t help it, as this is my comfortable foundation. But still, as time goes on, I’m hoping that I can learn it, and continue pushing myself out of my home-grown inertia.

Wherever I land, wherever in the world, I don’t think I will need a chest freezer like the one we had growing up. Instead, there might be a smaller container that will hold maybe a container or two.  But of course, when back on Cape Cod I’ll stop at Friendly’s Ice Cream parlor and order a selection of my childhood favorites. Either way, the best part about any of these experiences is that I’ll get to enjoy whatever’s out there before it gets gobbled up by my siblings.