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The Ice Cream Insider

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It's 98 degrees in Brooklyn. The Weather Channel website says it "feels like" 107, but I say it "feels like" hell. If I could, I'd curl around the base of the toilet with my panting dog. But I can't, so I find more conventional, homo sapiens ways to cool off: straddling fans, sticking ice cubes in the waistband of my underwear, and visiting ice cream parlors.

I love ice cream any day of the year, but this August, the creamy delight cools like central air. Never mind that my midsection has noticeably thickened since Sunday; we're having a heat wave, and I don't care if I'm too fat to can-can. I watch the kind scoopers stack sugar cones with tears in my eyes. Even my lactose intolerance can't stop me.

What is it about ice cream anyway? It's cited as a comfort food, right up there with mashed potatoes. Ice cream socials please kids and their parents equally, and a cute date will split a cone with you from the truck outside the restaurant while you ponder how to invite them over. Wherever there is ice cream, life seems happy and positive.

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