It's nuclear summer already, and that sort of hideous heat really ought not to hit before July. In my freezer lurks the remains of a carton of ice cream whispering sweet promises of cold, creamy, not-hotness. It is ideal packaging for the indecisive family who cannot come to an agreement on either chocolate or vanilla. (We cannot have Neapolitan because Mommy is the only one who eats strawberry. And vanilla. And chocolate. I'm sure we all see the direction that's headed.) To avoid the siren song of multiple ice cream cartons, we shall stick to The Great Divide with half chocolate and half vanilla.
Yesterday, the ice cream was getting more and more insistent. I could clearly envision myself dancing around the kitchen with that carton snugly nestled under one arm while the other arm wielded a spoon to expertly transfer its contents directly into my mouth. And in this vision I was humming the unlikely tune, "I like big butts..." Mmm-hmm. At this precise moment, I e-mailed an emergency message to a favored walking buddy who thankfully was available later in the evening to trek around the lake a few times. It helped put the ice cream (not to mention the song and dance...) in perspective because three laps around the lake would just barely account for the calories in a serving of that ice cream.