My youngest has turned around in her chair so that she can see me as I prepare my cup of coffee. She was the last to finish supper, and as her good fortune would have it, she is the only one to have an ice cream cone for dessert. Four kids. One cone. It is a puzzle for King Solomon to solve as to which one gets the cone. Since all the others have now dispersed, she is the lucky winner of a sugar cone topped with Scotsburn Easter Hunt festive ice cream.
I was not contracted to write a commercial for Scotsburn, but I must say this delectable treat is filled with these tiny, chocolate Easter eggs that are just the cutest thing ever. What an adorable idea. And the colors- purple and yellow swirls. Don’t get me started…just go buy some, already. You’ll thank me later.
I am pouring an exorbitant amount of full cream into my coffee while she licks away at said cone. My coffee, yes, there is a method to the perfect cup. Pour steaming hot liquid into a tall mug. Add a heaping teaspoon of sugar. Lots of cream. Lots. And there is my dessert.
“Mom,” she asks me as I stir, “How is ice cream made?”
I am distracted at the moment, thinking about other, more pressing concerns. I look at the coffee cream container I am holding, and the sugar dish besides, and it jogs my memory.
“Cream,” I say, “sugar, ice, vanilla…”
“And milk?” she asks.
“Yes,” I continue. “Ice cream comes from milk.”
“And milk comes from cows,” she confirms.
I am wondering at this line of questioning now, as she seems to be leading me somewhere. I finish stirring my coffee, and take a sip. Ah, the goodness of Dunkin Donuts own blend. Nothing like a good cuppa java to see me into the evening.
“Yes, milk comes from cows,” I say, a bit puzzled by all this. She licks the ice cream, and looks directly at me.
“So, you don’t have to kill anything to get it?
She wants me to confirm to her that there was nothing killed in the process of getting this ice cream from the cow to her cone.
Nothing has been killed in the literal sense, but let’s be serious. I am now thinking about cows instead of ice cream brands, and suddenly my appetite, for all things creamy and full of saturated fat that come from animals that moo and chew their cud, is lost.
Pass me a Pepsi, and let’s call it a night.