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Apologies to anyone who might have clicked onto the webcam link while I was busy getting up to order another lemonade.  It was not my intention to treat you to a shot of my voluminous cans.  But hey, a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.

What this girl’s gotta do is own up to the truth:  I’m only in it for the ice cream.  I had that bowl of peach ice cream fulla crunchy vanilla seeds in my mind’s eye.  I teased Lloyd with the promise of ice cream.  I went to the greenmarket yesterday to do my grocery shopping, and walked directly to the dairy farm stand...where I realized that said dairy farm stand is only at the Wednesday and Saturday markets.  That meant stiffening my upper lip, sucking in my gut and marching, with purpose, to RhymesWithVoleFoods, which, for all its evils and irritants, at least carries the same cream I buy at the dairy stand.

Or at least they do when they are not out of stock.  Mild profanity utterance.  I wandered up the dairy isle, where I was greeted by the depressing site of three different brands of organic heavy cream, all ultrapasteurized.  In my book, if you’re going to ultrapasteurize cream, there’s no point in using its organic status as a selling point.  It’s still cream that tastes like boiled milk.  (But as I’ve said before, I am starting to feel more and more of an old crank for instancing the point, now that the New York Times [specifically, I think, Kim Severson, although I really should check this before I bandy her name about] has called ultrapasteurization “the savior of the organic dairy industry,” thanks to the longer shelf life imparted to ultrapasteurized dairy products.) I finally spotted a quart of my favorite second-choice cream—which never used to be ultrapasteurized until now.  Severe profanity utterance.

Eventually, I did find one brand of just plain old pasteurized cream—surprise, surprise, it’s RWVFoods’ store brand.  At this point, though, I was too worn out to utter any more profanity, and too relieved at the prospect of ice cream.

Of course, now we don’t have ice cream.  That’s a depressing prospect for an ambitious sheep.  After we finished our lunch, Lloyd asked me what I’d bought him for afters—purely as a tease, you understand; please do not send concerned emails asking if Lloyd is always such a demanding bastard when his wife is busy raising money for charity—and apparently the look on my face redefined desolation.  Of course, that look was no match for the look that followed when I saw him fix a bowl of Frosted Mini Wheats for dessert.  “It’s *fine*,” he said.  “I *like* cereal.” I would not be consoled.

Crazy?  Compulsive?  Perhaps.  But when you hear about the ice cream that would have been, you’ll understand why.

(to be continued in 1/2 hour or so...)