Growing up ice cream was paramount in our household. It was always in the freezer and we ate it everyday, year round. It was not merely a summer treat to us. My father’s idea of a bowl of ice cream consisted of three healthy scoops, not marbles as he referred to stingy dips. Now an ice cream parlor just opened near me claiming they have Philly-sized scoops. I don’t know what Philly-sized scoops are (they would be just scoops to us), but I’m guessing they are large since my family’s idea of a bowl of ice cream is about 5 or 6 times what a serving of gelato in Italy would be.
So I’ve never in my life had a real s’more. I believe it requires you to actually go camping. Apparently roasting marshmallows with the fire from your gas burner isn’t s’more-worthy. So the cat’s out of the bag, I’ve never been camping either. While I find the romance of camping tempting (sleeping under the stars, becoming one with nature, etc.), I fear the reality (bugs, wild animals, did I mention bugs?) would make me absolutely miserable.
“Spring has sprung. The grass has riz. I wonder where the birdies is.” –Anonymous
This is still my favorite poem. Sorry T.S Eliot. It was close but, in the end, the birdies won. I can hear the literati heave a sigh of disgust. My response? I believe the expression is “go suck a lemon.” You see, I have a long history of disgusting the intellectuals. It goes as far back as high school. I wore makeup, cared about fashion, and knew the current pop songs. Appalling! Who has time for such silliness? Um me.
After college I moved to New York with my faux bro. He wanted to live in Chelsea (of course, don’t all gay New York men?) so I found us an apartment on 25th street. We lived in a two bedroom railroad apartment that required you to walk through the kitchen to get to the bathroom at the other end. This was a source of hilarity for pretty much every visitor but it was perfectly normal to New Yorkers.
My husband loves biscotti. Every time we see it on a menu the conversation is the same. “Ooh, biscotti!” And I reply by wrinkling my nose. For years, he has refused to accept that I simply do not want such a delicious treat. It’s absolutely impossible in his mind. And to be fair, I can understand his denial.