The era of the milkshake

First things first: Evan loves ice cream. We'll be driving down the road and I'll hear this little voice in the backseat say, "I want an ice cream cone" at the most random of moments. Me, I could take it or leave it.* (Hello, my name is Jennifer, and I'm a salt-a-holic.) 

Evan gets his sweet tooth from Nate, who still hasn't resigned himself to the fact that he married a girl who would rather have a second--did I say second? I meant fifth--helping of mashed potatoes than a piece of cheesecake. I don't think about dessert; therefore, I don't make it until I see the deep-dish pie crusts I bought six months back are in the first stage of freezer burn, or Nate rescues a box of brownie mix from the depths of the cabinets and suggestively--sadly--sets it on the counter. Evan's love of ice cream got its start with a bowl of strawberry Blue Bell at my grandma's, then a chocolate cone a few months later, then a Frosty via my in-laws, then numerous cones at my parents' house. I understand that whenever he spends a weekend alone with the grandparents and one set switches him over to the other, there's an unspoken rule that the trip to either Palmyra or Corydon must include a stop at Culver's.

But lately--at least, around our local stomping grounds--if it's not soft serve from Mrs. Curl, the little mom 'n pop establishment 100 feet from our favorite playground, it's basically gelato non grata. The $4, real-cream deal from Trader's Point Creamery? Evan was more interested in figuring out how to get the sugar cone to stand on its tip. The Breyer's from our deep freezer? Wound up on our white duvet cover after a few licks. And stayed there. (OxiClean works wonders, not miracles.) And starting two weeks ago, even the customary x-small, 82-cent twist cone (topped with a chocolate Teddy Graham) from Mrs. Curl wasn't cutting it. For one, Evan has zero interest in the cone. Once the good stuff's gone (either via the tongue or the shirtfront), the cone goes. Two, summer in Indiana is not conducive to slow licking. I bought Evan a few milkshakes last summer, and he caught on pretty quickly to the advantages of having a form of ice cream you could carry to the playground and come back to between swinging and sliding. Still, there's just something alluring about a cone...whether it's the vanilla-chocolate duo, the holding it or the Teddy Graham, I don't know. Either way, a gallon could melt into soup in the time it takes Evan to make a decision.

So today, like all recent trips to Mrs. Curl, Evan and I stood in line and debated the pros and cons of cones vs. milkshakes, with our conversation going something like this:

Me: "Do you want a cone or a milkshake?"

Evan: "I want ice cream cone. And milkshake."

Me: "It's not an 'and' question. You can have one. A cone OR a milkshake."

Evan: "I want ice cream cone. And milkshake."

Me: "No, you have to pick ONE."

Evan: "I want a milkshake..."

Me: "Ok."

Evan: "...and ice cream cone. Chocolate."

I'm all for giving a 3-year-old choices, but sometimes an executive decision has to be made. Today's:

And thanks to his cone-free hands, he was able to do this:

*I make exceptions for a kid's-size serving of The South Bend Chocolate Co.'s peppermint ice cream. In a sugar cone. With one of their giant malt balls in the bottom. I'm not completely un-American.