There are many things I love. Coffee, red wine, cheese and ice cream are right up there near the top of the list. Although I’d love to believe that my palette lends itself to a mature sophistication of dark bold espresso, the brisk acidity of a Syrah, the rich, somewhat nutty flavour of fresh Asiago, I also need to acknowledge the nurture portion of the nature/nurture equation. What do I mean by that? Well, I grew up in Saskatchewan. One of the mainstays in many of the small towns that scatter the flat plains is the ‘town Dairy Queen’. I have fond memories of going there with my Grandma. She would let me pick whatever I wanted…whenever I wanted it. Driving through the desolate prairies on a road trip meant one thing – when we got to the next town we could stop for ice cream. There were no fancy Italian cafe’s serving Gelato, just good ole DQ. Consequently my Achilles’ heel is that delicious soft serve. Although I have been known to go on solo DQ missions when the cravings get bad, I do like to share my love for the stuff with my family. Evidently it agrees with them too.
Waiting. “Where is it, Mommy??”
Sweet Hallelujah. It arrived.
Me: “Can I have some?” Her: I don’t think so.
Getting messy is half the fun.
Forget it. I’m getting my own.
Did you say something about chocolate?
Ice cream coma.
