Gelato

Right about now, amidst the dog days of August, I find myself wishing for just one lick of true, Italian gelato.

It was a hot, lazy afternoon in Florence. S and I had just stumbled into town after a long train ride through the south of France. We walked by a lively cafe, drawn closer by the sight of dozens of varieties of delectable gelato at the ice cream counter, topped with things like sun ripened strawberries, juicy pineapple, shredded coconut, rum soaked pound cake, and more.

S's eyes widened in anticipation. He pointed to a waffle cone and said "Cio, per favore" and watched, as the girl loaded his cone with FOUR KINDS of gelato. The 14 inch creation was topped off with a SECOND cone stuck through the middle, functioning as a toothpick would in a club sandwich. Mine was a lowly almond-encrusted sugar cone, filled with two delicious selections of dark chocolate and tiramisu.

We wandered through the city, feverishly licking to keep up with the melting ice cream dripping down our hands. It took S almost 45 minutes to finish his. A good day.

Oh the memories.