The afternoon sun beat steadily over the western sky, our senses were dull, our bodies listless– I cried out loud, “Drumsticks!” With one accord we ran to the freezer for the long anticipated treat.
Mock them if you will, but I consider the chocolate dipped, nut studded, ice-milk concoction one of summer’s greatest pleasures– right down the chocolate filled bite at the end of the cone.
Within seconds we each had our hand on 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, !!– where’s the eighth? Eyes downcast, Hans confessed to giving one to a friend the day before. Usually I buy plenty and to spare (because I despise the scarcity mentality) but Drumsticks arrive in boxes of eight.
In the next blink, Hans was unwrapping a cone and settling into the porch swing. What? How?
And Stefan’s hands were empty.
“Are you kidding me?” Ben murmured, “I hate it when he’s all noble like that.”
“Me too.” I replied. Because it should have been me– shouldn’t it? Isn’t the mother the eternally self-sacrificing character in these stories?
But I was also glad. And I enjoyed my ice cream down to the very last chocolate filled bite.
I’m considering ordering this fabulous tee from Amazon. Like it?