There is seriously something about soft serve ice cream that I cannot get enough of. On a walk home from the train station with my boyfriend this weekend, we saw a sign promising fresh icecream pointing us from the little paved path that runs the length of his town to another, smaller and less manicured path. At the end was the cutest little ice cream shop, all decorated with retro 50's booths and jukeboxes and turquoise. He paid for my soft serve - twist in a cup with a flimsy white plastic spoon - and we went merrily on our way back to his house, following the railroad path to the waters edge.
there is something just so wonderful about licking chocolate and vanilla deliciousness off of a flimsy little spoon - i love it!
When my sisters and I were young, my mom and dad would always drive us to the Dairy Queen in town to grab some ice cream. Dad always acted like it was a treat for us, because we were especially good girls that day etc, etc, but I'm more than sure it was just an excuse to get some ice cream for himself. While we were adventurous with our lemon lime slushies and blizzards and flavors galore, dad always got the same. exact. thing.
Soft serve vanilla in a cone dipped in butterscotch. The hot butterscotch would become deliciously crunchy and crisp when it kissed the ice cold cream and I can still hear the snap of the first bite. My favorite was the little twist at the top that never quite hardened all the way, where there were still remnants of ooey-gooey butterscotch hidden in the middle. Dad never failed to get his favorite - he of course always tasted our just to "make sure they weren't poisonous" ... .as he did with our Halloween candy every year - but he always stuck to his guns with the classic.
Years and years later, when i was a junior in college in Boston, we took a trip to Fanueil Hall and Quincy Market, and dad found an ice cream shop situated amongst the many little food booths that had soft serve. It had been years since I'd gotten ice cream with him, but when the cashier asked his order the same familiar words came out - soft serve vanilla in a cone dipped in butterscotch. He took the first crunch, I ate the twist at the top. I can't even describe the feeling - I love when that happens.
there is something just so wonderful about licking chocolate and vanilla deliciousness off of a flimsy little spoon - i love it!
When my sisters and I were young, my mom and dad would always drive us to the Dairy Queen in town to grab some ice cream. Dad always acted like it was a treat for us, because we were especially good girls that day etc, etc, but I'm more than sure it was just an excuse to get some ice cream for himself. While we were adventurous with our lemon lime slushies and blizzards and flavors galore, dad always got the same. exact. thing.
Soft serve vanilla in a cone dipped in butterscotch. The hot butterscotch would become deliciously crunchy and crisp when it kissed the ice cold cream and I can still hear the snap of the first bite. My favorite was the little twist at the top that never quite hardened all the way, where there were still remnants of ooey-gooey butterscotch hidden in the middle. Dad never failed to get his favorite - he of course always tasted our just to "make sure they weren't poisonous" ... .as he did with our Halloween candy every year - but he always stuck to his guns with the classic.
Years and years later, when i was a junior in college in Boston, we took a trip to Fanueil Hall and Quincy Market, and dad found an ice cream shop situated amongst the many little food booths that had soft serve. It had been years since I'd gotten ice cream with him, but when the cashier asked his order the same familiar words came out - soft serve vanilla in a cone dipped in butterscotch. He took the first crunch, I ate the twist at the top. I can't even describe the feeling - I love when that happens.