Tag Archives: Ice Cream

“You chose … wisely.”


Do you ever have moments of absolutely pure conviction? Where you don’t need anyone else’s opinion on something, because you are 100% certain that you are about to make the right decision?

I rarely have moments like that. I require someone else’s feedback on everything. Which shoes I should wear. What books I should read. I’ve literally asked dinner dates if they thought I should “pee now or wait until after we’ve ordered.”


Is it possible to make something truly wonderful (and fattening) even more wonderful (and also more fattening)? Of course. This is America, damn it. Where we don’t take “no” or “that’s irresponsible from a dietary standpoint” for an answer. Where we take our dessert with an extra side of dessert.


Somewhere, someone is starving to death. </seriousness>


These are the cones that Rand and I spotted at an ice cream shop in Pennsylvania that was graciously named “Pigadilly’s“.  If the extra $1.50 price tag looks a little steep, remember: innovation and genius do not come cheap. You aren’t just paying for a cone – you are investing in what makes American great.

And also investing in what makes America fat. But let’s focus on the great part.

I’m not done talking about ice cream.

I know, I know – you think I’d have gotten it out of my system after the thousand odd words I dedicated to it last week, right? But you’d also probably presume that at some point, I’d also have gotten tired of eating all these sweets, much less writing about them.

And yet, I haven’t. My passions clearly die hard.

I don't remember what was going on here, but I suspect it was adorable.



If my last voyage out to New York was the trip of cupcakes, then my most recent trip to San Francisco was the jaunt of ice cream.

Because in the few days that I spent there, I ate a lot of it. I can process dairy far better than the next gal (particularly if the next gal is, say, my friend Giselle, who’s entirely allergic to the stuff) but by the end of my trip I was a farty, bloated mess.

I mean, more so.

Of course, the ice cream was not entirely to blame. There was also pizza, and pasta, and copious quantities of cheese. But mostly, it was the frozen confection that did me in.

In spite of all of that, I regret absolutely nothing. It was a moral act, gobbling up all that ice cream. I sacrificed myself so that others might live without crippling gastrointestinal pain as a result of downing a gallon or so of frozen, churned milk. My work is still not finished, but I will share my findings with you, with the caveat that these results are not entirely conclusive. There are more sprinkles to pile on, more scoops to lick, more cones to gobble.

That sounded dirty. I did not mean for it to.