The Moonlight Baker

Yesterday, I talked about ice cream.  Strawberry ice cream. 

I teased you about it.  Showed you pictures.  Made you salivate. 

And that was mean of me.  Just plain mean. 

You probably went to bed last night thinking about that baby pink strawberry ice cream. 

You probably laid in bed last night and dreamt about that baby pink strawberry ice cream. 

You probably woke up this morning and wanted to hurt me, because of all of the above.

Well, I’m sorry.  Really.  Truly.

Believe me?  Please?

I was 6 years old when my family and I took a week-long trip to Lake Placid for our annual summer vacation.  I remember seeing and doing a lot of cool things over the course of that week - figure skating on olympic ice, watching ski-jumpers practicing their dare-devilish stunts, wandering around the charming little town and discovering the many shops it had to offer.  

And who could forget getting stuck in traffic – caused by, of all things, an Iron Man competition?

But one of the most memorable parts of the entire trip – for me, anyway, was our stop at an unassuming restaurant on the drive there. 

To be honest, I don’t remember much about this place.  Don’t know the name, the address.  Don’t even know what I ate for lunch (though my guess would be a hamburger or a hotdog . . .  for what it’s worth).

What I do remember, however, was what I got for dessert – a strawberry ice cream cone.