The daddy-o and I just sat side-by-side – each of us reading our respective The New Yorker magazines [the Feb. 27, 2006 issue has a fascinating article entitled “Pursuing Happiness: Two scholars explore the fragility of contentment”] – and finished off a huge bowl of ice cream together.
Earlier, soon after we had finished dinner, the daddy-o grinned like a little kid and asked me, “Want to have some ice cream?”
“You’re still sick!” said my ever-pragmatic mother. “You shouldn’t be eating ice cream!”
I grew up around injunctions that eating cold foods, and food containing butter, would worsen one’s sore throat/cough/flu/etc.
“Yeah, Daddy,” I said worriedly, watching as he got up, removed the ice cream from the freezer, and intently began scooping heaping spoonfuls into a bowl while studiously ignoring my mother’s anxious prattling. “The ice cream might mess up your cough even more. You sure you want to go for it?”
He looked up just long enough to reply scornfully, “No one has ever gotten sick from eating ice cream.”