I got in trouble today. I went for a walk at lunch. And I got hit by a truck. Figuratively speaking, of course. At first, I walked by. Then I spotted people eating them. These gigantic, delicious-looking ice cream sandwiches. Then more. On my way back, with my lunch, I watched a man digging in. Another was ordering. I asked them, “Is it good?” Their response (the eating man was just something like “mm-mmm-uumm-oohmmm”) was enough to make me disregard my lunch, plan on hiding it in the work freezer and instantly become overwhelmed by the choices. (Not to mention the swell guy working the truck. What a doll!) Besides, in my family, ice cream is genetic. As my Uncle Bobby so eloquently put it on one of my summer visits as I dug into a bowl, “Ice cream is dinner.”
And right now, ice cream is lunch, too.