Don’t eat ice cream in a hot wind

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On vacation last week, in the wee town of Minden, on a hot and muggy day, we (my family of 4) decided to head to the infamous Kawartha Dairy for ice cream.

We waited in line for 20 minutes, during which time I pulled my 5-year old son off the fence, partitions and back into the lineup at least 25 times. But it would be worth the wait, it would.

As we waited, I watched what people ordered ahead of us, gauging the size of the scoops and trying to determine which ones were “baby” cones, “Small” cones and “large”. It had been years since I’d had a Kawartha Dairy ice cream, and although I remembered them as very generous scoops, I assumed the massive 2 scoop cones everyone was ordering were in fact, the “large”.

We ordered 4 “small” cones and I handed the massive ice cream balls one at a time to my husband, who handed them to the kids, in turn. He then took my cone while I waited for his, and paid. Good grief, that’s a lot of ice cream.

I looked around at the clear sky, noticed the warm breeze blowing against my skin and breathed in a relaxed sigh. This was living.

Less than 30 seconds later, Rich came running over to the window in a panic, demanding 2 bowls and 2 spoons and a wad of napkins. He grabbed them and ran off – me following lazily behind unsure what all the commotion was about.

As I approached the picnic bench where my family sat, I was greeted with complete chaos. Reid was as blue as a Smurf, from head to toe, covered in a quickly melting “blue bubblegum” ice cream cone. Rich was frantically jamming it into the bowl and trying to wipe off his arms. I looked at Sydney, whose Moose Tracks was all over her shirt and down her face.
What the hell?

Rich, who was holding my cone, was frantically licking the bottom to keep it from dripping.

“What the? How did it melt so fast?”

As I uttered the words, I felt a cold drizzle down my arm and I looked to find Rich’s cone melting at Mach1 speed. The hot wind was whipping against the cone and splattering it across my top. I stepped aside and started licking frantically, the ice cream now blowing horizontally on the person next to me.

A¬†young mom with two small boys, also with “blue bubblegum” ice cream cones, sat down with their fresh order and looked at us like we were complete derelicts. That is, until her youngest son leaned against her with blue ice cream dripping everywhere.

“Oh my God, don’t touch me!” She screamed.
“What? How? Jesus! Where’s Daddy?” Spotting Daddy who was strolling over completely unsuspecting, screamed “GRAB SOME NAPKINS! GODDAMNIT!”
He turned on his heel, horrified, in his neat, white linen shirt.
“This is STUPID! NEVER AGAIN!” she added, because I’m sure her wailing children weren’t hysterical enough.

We quickly departed the scene – heading for our van, laughing and trying to clean up our own mess. We were covered. Thank goodness I kept a container of baby wipes in the van.

Next time we’ll order “baby” cones and avoid a 30 degree day with 100km/h winds.