I didnít do it intentionally. I mean It was intentional, but it wasnít intentionally done for Thanksgiving. Matt and I went food shopping (How is that for being absorbed into the culture? Soon, Iíll be asking for bags.) last Tuesday night, and when we cruised through the frozen section, I bought, as I always do, whatever ice cream is on sale. This time, two half gallons of chocolate for him and two half gallons for me, both reduced fat. One butter toffee and one vanilla.

On Wednesday, when Diane was about to make her last Thanksgiving trip to Roche Bros., she, like the Hardy Boys queried, ìDo we have any vanilla ice cream?î

To which I proudly replied, ìI bought some last night. For the pies, right?î
Except, the pies had only that moment crossed my mind, but being the duplicitous snake in the grass (Dianeís sobriquet of endearment, subsequently adopted by all the sisters), I saw the brownie points and grabbed them.

After a long and festive Thanksgiving dinner, and the requisite amount of digesting time, I brought out my vanilla ice cream to accompany those pies: the pecan that John Lewis bakes and delivers every year, a mince meat pie Diane makes for Bob, a pumpkin pecan cheese cake brought by Katherine, and lastly, a traditional apple pie. Thatís when Charlie Hopkins, aka MR. VANILLA ICE CREAM CONNOISSEUR, walked into the kitchen, took one look at the carton, and shoutedî Light ice cream! Light ice cream! Why did you buy light ice cream? This is Thanksgiving; weíre supposed to get fat!î

His wholly unreasonable outburst caught me by surprise. I fumbled ìCome on, youíll never taste the difference.î As if one could pass arsenic past the Kingís designated taster. The guy drops dead or he doesnít. I thought, If I leave the lid open all the way, no one will read the label, and no one else will know.

About a minute later, Kate waltzes into the kitchen. ìLight ice cream?! Why are we having LIGHT ICE CREAM?î Loud enough to wake the dead in not so nearby Mt. Hope Cemetery. It was then that I knew it was time to flee.

Friday, I opened the vanilla ice cream container to see how much had been eaten, proving my point that no one would mind, and what did I find? Half scoops of ice cream nestled in a shallow pit of off- white. As though they had been scooped out, plopped beside the pie, tasted, then tossed back.

This year, I did not walk around with my camera glued to my right hand. I took a few pics, mostly without the cameraís worthless flash, and then stopped. Therefore, I donít want anyone living in Minnesota to holler, ìWhere are my two nieces?î

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