A Memoir of Friendship, Fried Ice Cream, and Sweet Full Circles
Setting: April 2024 — A corner booth in the mall
Some places become part of your story without you realizing it. Not because they’re remarkable, but because you keep returning to them at different versions of your life.
For me, one of those places was Critics, a casual diner tucked inside the mall.
People stopped there after shopping or making a few laps around the mall, but for my friends and me, it became something more.
The three of us used to go there after walking the mall. A giant bowl of fried ice cream, three spoons, and hours of sharing stories over melting whipped cream and hot fudge.
It was tradition: a sugary ritual that made us feel older, more important, like we had a table and a dessert to call our own. It wasn’t just about the food. It was about belonging.
We went there all throughout middle school, high school, college and beyond. It was one of those places that never really changed, even as we did.
In 2024, I took Holden there for the first time and slid into the same booth where my friends and I had sat, the one that held so many stories.
He got one look at the whipped cream mountain and yelled, “WOW.” Then he dug in like it was the best thing he’d ever tasted.
“I’m not full,” he insisted between bites. “This is so good, my brain doesn’t want to stop eating.”
Then, with all the sincerity in the world, he said:
“I love this food. I wish I could live here because I love desserts.”
Critics closed in 2025. But before it did, the tradition came full circle in the same booth, over the same dessert. We were there: first us, then him.
What started with three spoons ended with one more.
And even though the lights are off now, the memory — the ritual, the belonging, the joy — still sits there, right where we left it, tucked into that old corner booth where we used to sit.
This post is part of my One-Minute Memoir series — short reflections on small moments that still manage to say something big.
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