Ice cream

One day when I was eleven I had the very firm and distinct thought that when I was grown up I would eat all the ice cream I wanted, anytime I wanted to. For the last several weeks I have been doing that.

It is such a comfort, ice cream. Real ice cream, softened around the edges of the carton, studded with caramel or butter brickle, or nuts of some description. My preference is to eat it as it is almost turning from anything resembling a solid to a puddle of sweetened cream.

I like oatmeal. I particularly like oatmeal with raisins, brown sugar, cinnamon . . . and ice cream. Oatmeal a la mode. It's still oatmeal with all the good stuff for which oatmeal is famous, so it must be good for me. Right?

For pure hedonistic decadence I like dark chocolate cake with Hershey's cocoa frosting, with Death By Chocolate ice cream and Mrs. Richardson's hot fudge piled on top. The cake and the fudge should be warm so as to melt the ice cream and turn the whole concoction into a mush of chocolate, with the cake providing the slightest soupcon of texture.

I might one day notice or care about the inevitable result of my self-indulgence. The likelihood of that diminishes as time goes by: I am old. There's a limit to my ability to defy the Ugly Curve's trajectory:
I might as well enjoy the slide.

For now, I am adhering to my childhood determination.
I need to go now: there's some Adirondack Bear Paw calling my name.
I can hear it banging on the freezer door.
Best go let it out.