If you’d like, I can create a short creative piece inspired by the name. Here’s a possibility:

The treat was pale orange, swirled with ribbons of cream and something that tasted faintly of nostalgia. One lick, and you’d remember the sound of a screen door slamming in 1997. Two licks, and you’d smell honeysuckle and chlorine from a pool you’d never visited.

One day, Mr. Petros vanished. The shop became a laundromat. But some swear, on the hottest days, if you press your ear to the wall where the freezer used to hum, you can still hear Alice laughing—and the soft, sweet churn of something peachy freezing all over again.