something for everyone
ice bars
I was eight years old with ₩20,000 in my pocket and a freezer full of choices. Everyone had their favorite.
My parents and I would sleep over Saturday nights at my grandparents’ house—stone pillars and a maple tree in the yard, six big steps to reach the front door. Sunday morning, my dad’s older brother would show up with his family. We’d save a parking spot for them outside. My dad’s younger brother and his family would come later in the day.
My dad and I would play badminton in the street while we waited for everyone, just the two of us. Sometimes we’d lose the birdie to the nunnery.
For some reason, we never bought ice bars until everyone arrived. My grandmother would ask, "아이스께끼 사올까?" and my dad would slip me ₩20,000. "Get something for everyone," he'd say. "And then some." I’d run down the street with my cousins to the supermarket ten meters away. The freezer door had a smooth glide, like it had been opened a thousand times that summer.
We’d dig through, sorting for the cold quality ones, the ones that hadn’t half-melted and refrozen into something sad. “Do we have at least one for everyone?”, 민관, my younger cousin would ask, but I was already doing the math. Figuring out the optimal distribution based on who liked what, accounting for seconds and thirds. My brain was cooking even then. How many Encho Choco Bars? How many Jaws? My grandfather liked 비비빅, a red bean ice bar with actual 팥 bits that would show up in his teeth. My aunt liked 돼지바, for its pebbly crust, the salty-sweet granules pressed into every surface. The messiest of all the bars. She always ate it carefully, holding her hand underneath to catch what fell. My mom, when she wanted one at all, would take a Bravo cone. Although World Cone was taller, Bravo was her pick.
We'd load everything into the basket. The shop owner would dump all the ice bars in a black plastic bag. Heavy in my hands, heavier the crown. I never ate one on the way back because I wanted to share it with my family, and it was customary to give the first offering to the eldest. My grandfather would go first.
Most of us would gather in the TV room around him while others would drift to where the tall air conditioning unit stood. My younger uncle was usually belly up in his undershirt, taking a nap. The TV murmured, serving as the backdrop to the sound of wrappers peeling and wooden sticks hitting the bottom of the trash can.
No trades. Everyone had their own, at least for the first pick.
My first pick was always 더위사냥, a coffee ice bar. The name translates to "hunting the heat," fitting for its icy coffee texture. My parents didn't want me having too much caffeine, so I'd split it with my dad, peeling off the middle wrapper just enough to expose the midline, then we'd each hold one end and break it in half like a turkey wishbone. The bigger half was always better because I didn’t have to start sucking on cardboard immediately. The top edge would get soggy, and by the end it felt like eating coffee ice cubes with a side of paper straws. My grandfather always took his coffee with milk and sugar. He’d let me have a spoonful or two from his cup. The ice bar tasted exactly like that—milky and smooth.
Then the Encho Choco Bar. Double chocolate, the inside textured like an actual chocolate bar. I’d use my front teeth to crunch through once I got past the outer shell. Even the wooden stick tasted more wooden than the other bars.
Then Jaws, a purple flavor, a layer of red and blue. I didn’t know until recently it was supposed to be orange and strawberry flavors. I’d chip away at the outer casing, working toward the red core, patient and methodical.
And 뽕따, the one I’d nurse on hot days. Pop the cap, suck the top, slowly massage the rest.
Creamier than Glacier Freeze Gatorade, sky blue and sweet. Those were my top four choices and I made sure to get one of each.
Some ice bars had both universal appeal and unwavering structure. 스크류, the group’s second favorite had the longest melting time, staying icy when all others would turn to soup. It was everyone's reliable second choice, so I always grabbed extras.
This was the rhythm of my Sundays. Until it wasn't.
I was nine when we moved from Seoul to Philadelphia.
H Mart was forty minutes from my mom's house. My mom would push the cart through produce while I'd head straight for the freezer aisle. Melona was always there. It was never my favorite, but seeing it felt like an umbilical cord to my childhood. I'd stand there, looking at the vibrant lime green wrapper through the frosted glass. Often Melona would melt on the drive home and the consistency would be all wrong, but we'd buy it anyway.
One day, Samanco, the fish-shaped wafer, made its way to H Mart. The quality was hit or miss. Sometimes I'd bite into the tail and get only wafer, no vanilla ice cream. Other times both the vanilla and red bean would be packed to the brim. Andrew latched onto it the first time he tried one so my mom still buys it for him when she knows we'll be in Philly, stocking the freezer for his fishing expedition.
Last summer I walked into Little Banchan Shop and found Jaws. I bought it, came back to the car where Andrew was waiting. I peeled it open and told him about my Sunday afternoons, about the freezer with the smooth glide, about being eight years old with ₩20,000 in my pocket and a mission to carry out. I told him what made me feel like the world was my oyster back then—not the ice bars, but being trusted to remember who liked what. To bring back a little bit of joy for my family.
