We are having ice cream weather already, by which I mean that you want to eat ice cream all the time and that you feel like ice cream all the time, about to melt.
The other day I looked back at a notebook from last year and found the following thoughts on ice cream- here they are:
My first ice cream in Lebanon was made of snow, eaten at the side of a frozen dam, while we took a well-earned break from snow-shoeing. Our guide dug deep into the drifts and handed out plastic cup after plastic cup of snow gelato drizzled with carob syrup and sprinkled with dried fruits and nuts.
Months later in July I have another memorable ice cream on the way home from a weekend in Tyre. The little shop at the side of the highway has a spectacular selection of flavours in every colour under the summer sun. The man behind the counter uses his gloved hands to mould the ice cream onto the cones making extraordinary neon sculptures. I chose strawberry, blackberry, mango. He can’t believe I only want three flavours and gives me extra strawberry to make up for it.
At home, I feel like I’m melting. I resort to opening the freezer and standing in front of it for a few minutes, even leaning my head inside and taking deep cold breaths. I’m convinced that one day my husband will come back from work and find me in pool on the floor, pink and white, vanilla and strawberry, like the the ice cream in the freezer.