don't mind me, I'm just daydreaming about summer picnics and ice cream... 🏖️🍦
but really—there's a rhythm to summer days, and I want to plan your meals around it.
sunrise looks like cotton candy: pink skies and wisps of cloud. I convince you to join me for a walk while there's still dew on the grass, and yes, I'm hoping you work up an appetite. I'll reward you with breakfast when we get back: toast and eggs and bacon and fresh fruit, muffins that are practically cake, strawberries and whipped cream.
we're off to the beach next. I pack us a picnic. we claim a spot in the shade. after sunscreen has been applied (forgive my extra squeezes, you're just getting so soft), we are content to lounge and bask in the warmth of the day.
my carefully-packed cooler gets emptier and emptier as things steadily disappear: thick sandwiches and juicy slices of watermelon, cans of cool soda, bags of chips, decadent homemade brownies. by the time I glance up from my book, you're looking beached and more than a little rosy. time to get you in the water. they say not to swim after eating but that's just a myth, and besides, you aren't so much swimming as floating. hot and overstuffed on land, you are cool and buoyant in the water.
alas, all things must end. back out we come. you're heavy, sleepy, and warm, so we pack up and head home for an afternoon nap while the hottest part of the day passes. well, you nap. I'm needed elsewhere; I have plans for dinner.
it's grilling season, after all, so you know what that means: skewers of beef, bell peppers and zucchini; grilled corn, smokey and sweet; barbecue ribs, roasted potatoes, and garlic bread…is it too much? but what better way to spend a lazy, hazy summer evening than with dinner straight from the barbecue and a drink in hand?
there is one thing that could make it better, if you want. before I even tell you what it is, you're nodding at me. yes, please. aren't you full? so full. I want more.
and so, from the depths of the freezer, I retrieve a carton of vanilla bean ice cream. this is the good stuff, the artisan shit that reminds you vanilla is not plain, vanilla has depth; it is floral, earthy, rich, almost like caramel. combined with sugar and cream, chilled and churned and frozen, I might as well be spooning bites of ambrosia into your mouth. you'd think I was, based on the indecent sounds you're making.
in fairness, it's not just the ice cream. it's the ice cream on top of a whole day of eating. once you've finished the carton and my hands are free, they both go straight to your belly, and wow. you are round and stuffed to your limit. no wonder you're squirming, it must ache. you let me get too carried away. I like when you get carried away. the words come out breathy and soft. you did so good.
I like you like this: breathless and big, dazed and contented, the taste of vanilla still on your lips.
