The Blueberry Ice Bar That Defeated My Nutrition Ego: How I-Mei Accidentally Made Me Befriend My Own Body Again

There are moments in life when a person must confront a terrifying truth: Not death, not aging, not even the horrifying realization that your mother is getting older. At the same time, you are still mentally stuck somewhere between newborn and dying. No. Sometimes the most massive existential dilemma can come packed in an insignificant plastic wrap of: Seventy grams. Nothing more. Seventy. Grams. A small, rectangular-shaped frozen dairy dessert from I-Mei Foods. Something which most average human beings would have just opened, eaten, smiled and moved on with life. However, being a rather unusual human being, I manage to be that sort of person who can transform an ordinary frozen dessert into a philosophy discussion, a nutrition discussion, and a childhood recollection – without melting the ice cream. This is what happens when a health-conscious foodie who weighs less than ninety pounds decides that a tiny blueberry ice bar deserves the same level of analysis usually reserved for an archaeological discovery.

My mother brings it home. Of course, she does, because my mother has this extraordinary mothers-only ability: she somehow knows exactly what will make me happy while pretending she has no deliberate intention of doing what she is doing. She will deny it. She will say something like,
“I just happened to see it.” No, absolutely not. I’m much more intelligent than that. Mothers never simply “happen” to notice anything. They perform mental reconnoitres and keep information from the shadows, and remember what you loved when you were seventeen. They take in your expressions in about three-tenths of a second and have a better understanding of your psyche than any therapist ever could. My mom spots a blueberry ice cream bar. She remembers me. Adorable and somewhat comforting, since apparently, after decades of not talking to each other, travelling around the world, going to graduate school, fighting, and enduring disasters… My emotional operating system can still be hacked by blueberries. Honestly? Fair. Blueberries have been manipulating me for years. And they know it.

The moment I hold the package in my hand, I already feel ridiculous, because look at me: A woman approaching forty; A woman who has survived a hemorrhagic stroke; A woman who has lived across continents; A woman who has written professionally, managed publications, studied fashion design in Milan, and somehow built an entire identity around words… Standing in my kitchen, staring at a 70-gram frozen blueberry stick, as if it contains the meaning of existence. The tragedy is… It might. The wrapper itself is simple: No unnecessary luxury performance, no dramatic claims screaming about being a “superfood miracle,” No expensive-looking packaging trying desperately to convince me that frozen dairy has achieved enlightenment. Just I-Mei, and there is something deeply comforting about that. It has always been this way at I-Mei, this sense of very Taiwanese dependability that doesn’t need any introduction at all, that is just there. In the same way that a mother puts out fruit for you without having to say “I love you”, that someone leaves a remedy next to your bed without saying a thing, that someone remembers your favourite food despite years of miscommunication.

Part I — Memory, Migration, and Blueberries

I peel away the wrapper slowly because there are certain rituals for frozen confectionery. Always, there is a fleeting feeling of anticipation; That split second when the outside world touches the ice. What comes out first is not the sweet, but the cold. Not simply temperature. But the chill of the past. The scents emerge: Milk, Cream; Faint, fruity, brightness. And then… blueberry. Instantly, my mind starts doing something incredibly frustrating. It transports me. Whereas taste lets your mind wander, smell forces you to look backwards.

Suddenly, I am no longer standing in Taiwan; I am somewhere between Canada and my own memories. I am standing inside a supermarket during a Canadian winter. The kind of winter where the snow outside looks beautiful from the window but becomes deeply offensive the moment you actually have to walk through it; The kind where your face hurts; The kind where your fingers become useless; The kind where you wear so many layers that you no longer resemble a person but an angry walking Michelin Man.

And, there they are: Blueberries. Tiny, Expensive, Perfect. When I first moved to Canada, berries always felt like luxury objects. Not because they were covered in gold, not because they came in fancy boxes, but because they looked so fragile; Little jewels created by nature, especially wild blueberries: Those tiny dark blue treasures that somehow taste like the forest itself has decided to become fruit. Even during my broke immigrant years, when money was something I calculated with painful precision, blueberries remained one of the few things I refused to completely abandon, which sounds completely irrational. Because yes, I could have bought cheaper fruit; I could have purchased bananas; I could have bought apples; I could have made much more financially responsible decisions. But blueberries? Blueberries made me feel as though I was still alive: The smallest indulgence, The smallest reminder that living shouldn’t be just about survival, And maybe that is why I find this small ice box already to be emotionally threatening: For it is not only blueberries, But it is years of blueberries, It is Canada, It is migration, It is independence, It is solitude, It is every time I go grocery shopping alone in my cart, weighing up if I can afford to purchase beauty.

And now, here I am in Taiwan. It’s quite the irony, almost ridiculous, that although I was born in this place, blueberries end up being some of the strongest foreign memories that I have because of identity’s peculiarity; sometimes what defines us is not always the foods that we began with, but rather what we end up eating when we change into someone new. Except here, they are different: Rarer, more precious, Less casually available, which only makes my obsession worse. I already have the eating habits of a confused forest creature: I consume over one kilogram of assorted fruits every day. My fruit bowl is wider than my torso. This is not an exaggeration. At this point, my relationship with fruit has become concerning enough that agricultural researchers should probably investigate. Normal people have snack drawers; I have what appears to be a personal fruit ecosystem: My body is basically running on water, fibre, vitamins, and stubbornness. But blueberries? Blueberries are special.

Because eventually, I learn about anthocyanins: those beautiful little compounds responsible for the deep blue-purple colours in blueberries; the things associated with antioxidant activity; the things that make my already existing obsession feel scientifically justified. Of course, this is risky because it scientifically justifies what I am already in love with, and now I am unbearable: “Do you like blueberries?” Yes. Let me tell you why it is biochemically important for the next forty minutes. Nobody asked. Nobody ran away. But… There I was, with an I-Mei blueberry fresh milk ice cream stick, about to test my dearly loved blueberry whether it could make it through the transition to being a frozen dessert, because fruit is easy to love; Fruit is innocent; Fruit is standing there beautifully and acting as though it has never let anybody down. But ice cream? Ice cream is not that simple; it is where pleasure meets guilt for a bit of drama. And sadly for me… I have spent years becoming the villain in that relationship.

Part II — The First Bite: When a Blueberry Stops Being a Fruit and Becomes a Memory

I finally bite into it. And immediately, I understand why frozen desserts are dangerous: Not because they are unhealthy, not because they contain sugar, not because my nutrition-obsessed brain is already preparing a courtroom presentation against me. No. They are dangerous because they bypass logic. A frozen dessert starts its journey at the mouth but ends up attacking the whole nervous system: The first sensation is the temperature, that shock; the small electrical message sent from my teeth to my brain, which says: “Hey there. There is something very cold and emotionally complex that has just entered.” In an instant, I am transformed into a caveman feeling winter for the first time in his life. My eyes bulge out, my shoulders tighten up, and my whole nervous system is on the alert. And then… The cream arrives. Oh. Oh no. This is where my carefully constructed identity begins to collapse, because the first thing I expect from a blueberry ice bar is blueberry, obviously. The very name tells us right away: Blueberry, not “fresh milk,” Not “dairy experience,” Not “a philosophical exploration of lactose.” Blueberry. I expected fruit when I walked into this establishment. But no, I am given milk: Smooth, Cold, Round. Texture-wise, this is not hard, frozen like the other desserts, which offer a biting sensation as if you are munching on flavoured snow. It’s very refined; there are ice crystals in it, but it is well-regulated, like it’s been requested of the season to act more maturely. It’s the creaminess of fresh milk that adds an extra dimension of flavour without stealing the spotlight from the blueberry. And this is how we create our base. Blueberry is the star, and the milk is the stage. The blueberry gets a spotlight. And then the blueberry appears: Not loudly, not aggressively. This is what fascinates me. Blueberry flavour is often misunderstood. Artificial blueberry flavours tend to arrive like a person entering a room shouting their own name: “HELLO! I AM BLUEBERRY!” They are loud, Sweet, and almost cartoonish. Real blueberries are different, especially wild blueberries: They are quieter, more complex. They come in gradually. First, it is the sweetness, then the floral note, then the acid, then the depth of the dark berries, leaving one wondering how such small fruits can have so much character.
This ice bar understands bluberries. The blueberry is not trying to overpower the milk; It is dancing with it. And suddenly I am annoyed, because I was prepared to critique; I was ready; I came armed with my highly judgmental taste buds. I have travelled; I have eaten around the world. I have many opinions. I am the kind of person who can spend 10 minutes analyzing whether a restaurant’s bread basket reflects the establishment’s philosophy. Yes. I am exhausted. I know. But this? This is making my job difficult, because I like it. I really like it.
The texture keeps changing as it slowly warms up. And that is one thing that people usually forget when talking about frozen desserts: First mouthful is not yet the final product. Ice cream goes through a development process: Coming out of the freezer, it is modest, cold, compact, and rather shy. But then, with each passing second, it gets more expressive: It gets more flavours, it smells better, the texture changes, and the dessert relaxes. Well, which is kind of ironic since I need to learn this myself.

For as long as I can remember, I have been beating myself up to be perfect – physically, mentally, and productively. But there is also a blueberry ice bar inside a box telling me, “Maybe you need to relax, too.” How degrading, emotionally healing through dairy products. I made it through medical tragedies; I crossed continents; I recreated my life. And now, an ice bar gives me some psychological guidance? Perfect.

Food is never just food, particularly for those who have been uprooted, for those who are immigrants, for those who have lost parts of themselves. A taste becomes a place; an odour becomes a person; A feel becomes a year. And blueberries have always been that for me: They are not simply a fruit, They are a timeline, They represent the strange journey of becoming a person between places: I am Taiwanese, But I grew up elsewhere; I spent years in countries where I was the Asian child, Then I came to Taiwan and suddenly became the Westernized one, Then I went to Canada and became too Asian again. I have spent my whole life having one big identity crisis after another with transfers from one airport to the next, stamps in my passport, turning me into a cultural cocktail, a banana—yellow outside, white inside. Until now, somehow, this Taiwanese blueberry ice bar has been putting all the pieces that were once so disjointed back together, which is completely insane. I am well aware of how insane this may sound: A woman who sits in Taiwan, consumes a seventy-gram ice bar, and has a philosophical crisis over blueberries. This is a sentence that would have rolled my eyes as my younger self: “Are you crying over ice cream?” This is because younger me did not realize one thing: When you lose things, little joys become big. Because when I suffered a stroke, I suddenly found that everything became small: What I took for granted all my life became impossible; What I took for my independent future became a thing of the past; Who I used to be became someone I can now know only in memory. And, suddenly, such a mundane act as eating a sweet with my mother takes on an incredible value. This is because life isn’t just made up of marvellous things. In fact, life is sometimes made up of mundane things that go unnoticed: enjoying some snacks, chatting, that familiar flavour, your mother sneaking you something she knows you love.
The second bite is even better, because now my mouth understands what is happening. The initial cold shock has softened. The milk becomes smoother, the blueberry becomes deeper. There is a slight tang that appears at the end, and this is where I realize why I have always loved berries: Not sweetness, not really. Sweetness is comforting; Sweetness hugs you; Sweetness tells you everything is okay. What about acidity? Acidity makes you feel alive. It gives contrast to things. You cannot get full joy from sweetness without it. Similarly, happiness becomes more special after sadness. Similarly, the joy of reunion is heightened after separation. Similarly, forgiveness is possible only if there has been some pain. This is possibly the reason why I could not enjoy desserts that were only sweet. I require resistance, opposition, and struggle.

Evidently, my character was appropriately captured by the fruits of all this while. Yes, indeed, I am a fan of sour berries. My emotions even taint my food choices. An average person will eat a blueberry ice cream bar and think of how delicious the dessert is. But I eat a blueberry ice cream bar and think of how well it captures the lifelong experiences of suffering and resilience, migration, and finding beauty through all that pain.

My mother looks at me. She is eating normally, like a normal person, because she is normal. Meanwhile, I am conducting a spiritual investigation into frozen milk. The contrast is embarrassing, but also strangely comforting. Because this is us; This is always us: My mother grounds me, I overthink; She eats, I analyze, she lives. And somehow, between those two extremes, we meet, usually over food, because Taiwanese mothers may not always say, “I understand your emotional journey.” They say: “Eat”; “Don’t stay up late”; “Your body is already weak“; “Why are your hands cold?” “Did you eat?” They may sound like criticism; they may sound like nagging. Yet beneath all this, there is love in a very practical form, and maybe this is why this tiny blueberry ice bar already feels more than just what it is: Because my mother did not give me dessert; she gave me memories, she gave me a fruit that travelled from country to country with me, she gave me something small enough to be held in one hand… But at the same time, large enough to hold for many years.

Part III — The Nutrition Snob Gets Defeated by Condensed Milk

There is a very specific kind of arrogance that comes from studying nutrition: Not confidence; Arrogance, the dangerous kind, the kind that begins innocently. You learn about vitamins, you learn about minerals, you learn about how food interacts with the human body, and you become fascinated by the machinery of yourself. The body is truly wonderful: An outrageous biological phenomenon, a living symphony of chemistry. Then comes the gradual process of transformation: you no longer eat just food; instead, you judge it. At first, it all seems so reasonable: You read the labels, you make decisions, you know what you put into your body: Wonderful, Healthy, Mature. Then one day, without realizing it, you become unbearable; You become the person everyone avoids when opening a snack. “Oh no. She’s reading the ingredients.” Everyone knows; Everyone becomes nervous, because once you become that person, there is no going back. I became that person, with academic achievement, with enthusiasm, with absolutely no self-awareness. The worst combination. I didn’t just take my nutrition class, but I owned it. I left feeling the awesome pride of one who had discovered forbidden information. All of a sudden, I am informed, oh so very informed; I am informed of macronutrients; I am informed of micronutrients; I am informed of oxidative stress; I am informed of inflammatory pathways; I am well-informed enough to make myself healthier and more obnoxious. My brain has transformed into an ingredient-label surveillance system. A product would sit peacefully on a supermarket shelf, I would approach, The product would sense danger: “What is she doing?” “Why is she looking at the back of my package?” “Why does she have that expression?” That expression, the expression of a detective discovering evidence. Because I was. The detective, the very theatrical detective, the detective on the yogurt case, the detective grilling cookies, the detective studying the whipped cream like it had betrayed all of humanity. Cream? Not good. Whipped cream? Doubtful. Evaporated milk? No way! Trans fats? Run for your life! I set up very rigid laws, probably impossible laws. But since my stroke, my laws have become even more rigid.

When your body suddenly proves that it is not indestructible, you become protective, almost excessively protective. You start thinking: “What enters my body matters.” And that statement is true. It does matter. There comes a time when something important slips through my fingers – it is not simply an appliance; it is a place where memories are made, laughter is shared, and comfort is provided, and even brain freeze is had from eating ice cream too quickly. An extremely significant medical event. I know that for a fact, but right now, none of that means anything, because what I have done just now was make a very big mistake: I have flipped the packet, the one holding the frozen dessert that I was worshipping emotionally. And here it is: The ingredients. And then… “Fresh cream.” My eyes narrow. Continue. “Condensed milk” 煉乳. I stop. Silence falls not because something spectacular has occurred, but because my hypocrisy has walked into the room: slow and sure, with his little clipboard, judging me. Pardon me? Condensed milk? In my blueberry ice bar? My blueberry ice bar, which I’ve just finished singing the praises of for its ability to symbolize emotional healing through the freezing process? The ice bar made from blueberries, which I had planned to write a sonnet for? It is a betrayal on the inside, and there’s nothing for it but to acknowledge the fact that I have been praising the very thing whose ingredients would never have met with my approval before.

I stare at the ice bar. The ice bar stares back. Okay, it is not really staring back, since it is ice cream. But in an emotional way? Most definitely. It has the arrogance of a winner. The worst part? The worst part? It is delicious. That is what makes it so evil. If it were bad-tasting, then I would have my honour intact. I would be able to say, “See? I was right all along.” But nope, life is hard; it is tasty, very tasty. The cream’s freshness gives it a rich flavour; the condensed milk adds a sweet, caramel-like note; the milky flavour rounds it out.

And then all at once, I find myself faced with the uncomfortable realization that maybe I’ve confused discipline with punishment, maybe good health doesn’t entail being at constant war with pleasure, maybe my body doesn’t need me to be its guard, but maybe rather, its friend. This is difficult for me to understand because I am a very disciplined individual. Discipline has gotten me out of situations more than once; it allowed me to survive; it enabled me to rebuild; it helped me stick to my routine even amidst chaos. However, discipline devoid of compassion is just another form of brutality, and I am no stranger to brutality. For I have done myself a lot of harm over the years, I have been self-critical and self-destructive and disciplined: as a young adult, I fought my body: I judged it, measured it, controlled it. Smaller meant better; invisible meant success. Until finally, reality made me understand otherwise: my body was not my enemy; my body endured everything for me: trauma, sickness, loss, life.

And here I am… still trying to punish it because my ice cream contains cream. The absurdity is almost funny, actually. It is hilarious. I have survived a catastrophic medical event; I have survived losing an entire version of my life; I have survived rebuilding myself in another country. But condensed milk? Condensed milk almost defeats me. My dramatic brain needs to calm down.

I take another bite. For research, obviously. Scientific purposes. Blueberries reappear, The milk follows, The sweetness is regulated, And I realize one thing – This ice bar has never pretended to be some sort of health product; It’s not a blueberry shake pretending to be dessert; It’s not trying to fool me into thinking that ice cream eating is vegetable consumption; It’s dessert, proper dessert, a little treat, a cherishable moment. And maybe being healthy is not about removing all flaws. Maybe being healthy is about understanding that just because you have one good moment doesn’t ruin everything else. Just because you had one ice bar doesn’t mean you stopped eating your fruit; just because you had one dessert doesn’t mean you didn’t take care of yourself for years; just because you ate one portion doesn’t mean you’ve ruined your relationship with food.

The irony is that what I have always loved about blueberries is their balance: they are sweet but also sour; beautiful but also sharp; comforting but also challenging. Maybe I should have learned from them earlier. Life itself is not perfectly clean. It is not one flavour; It is not a flawless wellness product with a minimalist ingredient list. It is complicated; it contains sweetness, bitterness, and unexpected ingredients. Sometimes it even contains condensed milk. And maybe… just maybe… That is okay.

I look at the other half of the ice bar, and then I look at my mother. Of course, she has been observing this entire performance within my mind. Why wouldn’t she have? Mothers know everything. She does not say, “Are you experiencing an existential crisis because your dessert is made up of sugar and cream?” All she asks is: “Is it good?” And that is all she asks. Three simple words. There is no judgment, there is no lecture, there is no nutritional discussion. “Is it good?” And somehow, for some reason, those three words are very profound. Maybe they have always been that way, and she has always asked me that one simple question in life. “Am I perfect?” “Have I made all the right decisions?” “Have I optimized everything?” But just, “Am I okay?” And for the first time in my life, sitting here with an ice bar slowly melting in my hands, “Yes.”

Part IV — The Last Melt: The Healthiest Thing I Ate Was Permission

The strange thing about frozen desserts is that they are never the same dessert twice: The first bite is an introduction. The middle is a conversation. The last bites are where the truth appears, because by then, the ice bar has changed. It is no longer the rigid little rectangle that came out of the freezer; It has softened, Relaxed, given up its resistance. The edges begin to surrender first: Tiny traces of melted blueberry milk gather along the surface, creating little glossy streaks that slowly slide downward. And somehow, this tiny transformation feels absurdly familiar. Because isn’t that what happens to people? We spend years building ourselves into something hard, Protective, Untouchable; We convince ourselves that strength means never changing shape, never melting, never needing anyone. But then life gets in the way, and life has a fantastic talent for making people melt away – a separation, a loss, sickness, saying goodbye, coming back together again in celebration, a woman growing old, a woman discovering how un-independent she really is. Everyone melts. But not out of weakness, oh no, but out of humanity. I take another bite. The consistency is different now. Improved: The coldness has settled down; The milk flavour has come through; The creaminess has increased; The blueberry flavour has turned to nearly a jam-like consistency. This is the point at which frozen foods can be considered dangerous because they lose their consistency as frozen food. They become somewhere half-alive, somewhere between being ice cream and mousse, solid and liquid, memories and reality. Perhaps this is the reason why I love this particular point. For it reminds me that perfection was never the point, only transformation. The ice bar doesn’t improve by remaining exactly the same as it was when I first opened it. Instead, it gets improved by changing, which is an extremely rude thing to learn since so much of my life has been spent avoiding just that.

Before my stroke, I thought I knew myself. I had a life, a career, a home, a future. I was the person who travelled, the person who created, the person who moved through the world confidently. Then suddenly, my body said: “No.” And everything I had built collapsed. The person I was disappeared overnight. For years, I mourned that version of myself. I kept comparing my life at the present time with the life I lost. I kept thinking healing meant returning: Returning to Canada, Returning to independence, Returning to my old body, Returning to the old me. But maybe that was impossible, maybe healing was never about returning, maybe healing was about becoming something new. Like this ice bar: It will never return to its original frozen state after melting, but that doesn’t mean it has failed. It means it has changed: The blueberry does not disappear; The milk does not disappear. They simply become something different together. Perhaps people work the same way; Perhaps relationships work the same way. Perhaps my mother and I work the same way. For many years, I did not understand her. It seems absurd in hindsight, given the clear signs of this misunderstanding. My mother has never been expressive of their feelings. She is not a lover of love in films that express it through flowery speeches and beautiful poetry. In fact, she does what only a real loving mother can do: she fusses, she reminds, she prepares, she complains, she asks me to dress warmly, she asks if I have eaten, she tells me my posture is poor, she tells me I am not taking care of my body. At the time, all I could hear was criticism, but now I can see that what I heard was really her worrying. The interpretation was inaccurate because I was using the wrong language to listen to her love – English: Poetic, Direct, Beautifully packaged when she spoke it in Taiwanese: Practical, Direct, wrapped in reminders about food and health. The same woman who tells me not to eat too much sugar is the woman who buys me blueberry ice cream; The same woman who worries about my health is the woman who knows exactly which dessert will let me finally loosen my strict diet once in a blue moon and make me smile. Contradiction? No. That is motherhood. A Taiwanese mother can simultaneously say: “You shouldn’t eat too much dessert.” And: “I bought your favourite dessert.” And somehow both statements mean: “I love you.”

Then I examine the last remaining chunk. It has shrunk considerably. Ridiculously small lump of melting blueberry ice cream. And once again, I start feeling emotional, as usual, of course. It seems that my main vulnerability has nothing to do with sickness, trauma or getting old. It’s the frozen dairy products mixed with the mother’s love. My emotional strength has been brought down by a supermarket fridge. Perfect, extremely dignified. I even burst out laughing, because what else can I do? Life is too strange to be taken seriously. A lady who used to believe that she should earn luxury, success, and perfection to prove herself now sits happily because her mother bought her seventy grams of blueberry ice bar. The younger version of me would never understand. She would probably say: “That’s it?” Yes. That’s it. This is because eventually you will realize that happiness gets quieter. After all, it no longer comes with firecrackers; Happiness comes when someone remembers your favourite flavour; Happiness comes in the form of sharing a snack; Happiness comes in the form of your mother sitting by your side while you overthink about frozen milk or ice bar. And maybe that’s the best thing about this ice cream bar: No antioxidants, no blueberries, no milk – no nostalgia either. Permissions: Permission to be less than perfect, Permission to be someone who is concerned about his/her health and also enjoys dessert, Permission to be someone who has always been caring towards his/her body without having to punish himself/herself for it, Permission to acknowledge that, at times, pleasure is a part of being healthy. Since the body is not merely an entity to be cared for, it is something to be enjoyed. It is something that lets me enjoy blueberries, something that lets me laugh, something that lets me sit beside my mother, something that lets me marvel regardless.

And I finally swallow the final bite. The last sensation hits just as it should hit. First, the coldness. Second, the milk. Third, the blueberry. Last, the small yet exquisite acidity: The realization that life will always have its bitter taste, and perhaps that is why the blueberry stays in my life, since the taste of only sweetness gets forgotten. Sweetness devoid of its counterpart becomes commonplace. But sweetness combined with bitterness? That stays. Just like happiness following pain feels different, just like reunion following separation feels invaluable, just like forgiveness following misunderstanding feels miraculous.

I look at the empty wrapper: Seventy grams, that is all. A tiny amount of guilty pleasure; A completely unreasonable amount of emotion, but perhaps that is what makes food beautiful. We don’t only consume ingredients, we consume moments, Places, People, Versions of ourselves. This little I-Mei blueberry fresh milk ice bar contains Canada, Taiwan, my obsession with blueberries, my ridiculous nutrition standards, my mother’s quiet love, and the person I was, the person I lost, and the person I am still becoming.

Is it the healthiest dessert in the world? Surely not. But do you know what? We are lucky because, perhaps, the healthiest thing in it was never written on the ingredient’s label. Perhaps, the healthiest thing in it was that for some time, I forgot to view myself as something that needs to be cured. I just ate, enjoyed and lived. And taking into consideration everything my body went through… This may well become one of the kindest things I’ve ever done for myself.
I am looking at my mom. The wrapper is clean. “It’s all gone?” I nod. She smiles. Not a breathtaking smile, not a poetic smile, but just quietly, as only a loving mom should smile. Even more delectably than any possible filling this ice bar may have had. Because at the end of the day, the blueberry will eventually disappear; the cream will melt away; the wrapper will be thrown away, but the moment will remain forever – a daughter, a mother, an ice bar and a whole life of misinterpretations gradually becoming softer, warmer and almost tender. Although it all began with the blueberry ice bar. Or perhaps, because it all began with the blueberry ice bar.

Why Healthier Actually Diets Increase Death Rates!? All Mortality Secrets Revealed in Imei Foods Taiwan’s “Blueberry Milk Ice Bar”

Why Healthier Actually Diets Increase Death Rates!? All Mortality Secrets Revealed in Imei Foods Taiwan’s “Blueberry Milk Ice Bar”

Why Healthier Actually Diets Increase Death Rates!? All Mortality Secrets Revealed in Imei Foods Taiwan’s “Blueberry Milk Ice Bar”

Why Healthier Actually Diets Increase Death Rates!? All Mortality Secrets Revealed in Imei Foods Taiwan’s “Blueberry Milk Ice Bar”

Why Healthier Actually Diets Increase Death Rates!? All Mortality Secrets Revealed in Imei Foods Taiwan’s “Blueberry Milk Ice Bar”

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Why Healthier Actually Diets Increase Death Rates!? All Mortality Secrets Revealed in Imei Foods Taiwan’s “Blueberry Milk Ice Bar”

Why Healthier Actually Diets Increase Death Rates!? All Mortality Secrets Revealed in Imei Foods Taiwan’s “Blueberry Milk Ice Bar”