There’s an ice cream shindig going on in the breakroom right now here at work, and I’m struggling to avoid it. Not only do I desperately want some ice cream, but I feel that the ice cream wants me in return. I remember long ago, we had a dachshund named Liesl, and she had just delivered her first litter of puppies. Dachshund puppies, by the way, are nature’s cutest animals by a long shot. Anyway, for some reason, when they were just a couple of weeks old, we had to keep the pups away from Liesl for a while and prevent them from nursing. There was some weird medical reason for this, but to us kids, it just seemed cruel. It was not only difficult for the puppies–they were obviously starving–but it was hell for Liesl as well. Her teats were swelling almost visibly and she was howling for her children. It was agonizing to watch.
What does this have to do with ice cream? Nothing. I was simply trying to illustrate how the ice cream wants me just as much as I want it. It wants to be eaten. By me. Its siren song is calling me, but I will resist. I can almost guarantee, however, that there will somehow remain one small serving just for my gastronomical pleasure. I will not give in.