I love ice cream.
I'm not even sure if love is an adequate word. I have been asked by my partner "do you love me more than ice cream?". Of course I answered "yes darling", but she heard the hesitation in my voice. It was a close call.
In my own defense ice cream was love to me when I was a child. When I was seven my mom's friend came from Colorado to visit in Wisconsin, step son in tow. My sister and I convinced said step son it would be great fun to have a contest to see who could jump off a swing the farthest. He won- the jumping contest and a broken arm. At the emergency room my sister and I were given ice cream cones while we waited. I have had a certain odd fondness for emergency rooms since then. Ice cream erased any hint of trauma for me. It still does sometimes. There is no broken heart that cannot be at least temporarily numbed with a bowl of ice cream. All of this explains the girth of my bottom, I suppose.
I am wholly convinced that there will be ice cream in whatever exists for us after this life. There will be pools of frosty, calorie free, delicious ice cream that will never cause a belly ache from its overconsumption. Until I reach those glacial ice cream gates, however, there is Skinny Cow ice cream.
I am a girl who has tried every low-fat/sugar free/fakey low-cal ice cream out there. More than a few of those low calorie concoctions have assaulted my jaded taste buds on more than one occasion, but not my dear sweet Skinny Cow.
Skinny Cow is no cardboard low-cal wanna be ice cream. It IS ice cream. Tasty, satisfying ice cream like the 150 calorie vanilla/caramel ice cream cone, which even has that tasty chocolate reward at the bottom the more fattening cones have. I also love the 80 calorie Skinny Dippers and the new 100 calorie Truffle bars.
Thank you, Skinny Cow, for being so delicious and light. Thank you from the bottom of my getting-less-plump bottom.