It's 1am when I decide I need ice cream. After several minutes of contemplation I stand and amble through my house, clicking on lights as I go. I pass through the living room, taking note of a small plastic lizard on the floor and a stack of my children's school papers on the cocktail table. As I enter the kitchen it suddenly occurs to me that there may not be any ice cream in the freezer. My mantra begins: Please have ice cream please have ice cream please have ice cream please have ice cream. I silently chant this with feverish determination as I make my way to the refrigerator. I open the freezer and there, glowing with heavenly light is the ice cream. And my chant becomes: Thank you Jesus for this, most holy of ice creams, which I shall devour with utmost haste and praise.

This is when I open the ice cream. This is when the ice cream begins to laugh at me. It seems my mother was the last to have enjoyed the divine treat, and being my mother, she left it out until it melted. I don't mean she left it out until it became soft, or ever slightly oozy. We're talking full blown nuclear meltdown. The ice cream is a frozen pond of vanilla evasiveness at the bottom of the container. I believe the frozen peas probably used it for a skating rink. Such is the life of melted down ice cream.

But who am I to shun the ice cream in its less than appealing state? This was a gift from God I tell you! Although it certainly could have come in better shape, I will not cast the first stone, oh no.

Mmm. Sticky sweet vanilla goodness. My love remains true!

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