I scream, you scream

So there's something you should know about me. Well, about both Gina and me. We struggle with addiction. ... to ice cream. No. No, this is not a joke. In fact, it's so serious that when we were dating and brought our friends together for the first time, they (not us, they) broke in to an argument about which one of us was the bigger ice cream fanatic. It's so bad that we've made friends at Cold Stone's who know our orders by heart (and Gina's got one of the most complex Cold Stone orders you've ever heard of). I've personally given career advice to them after they told me my wife suggested they talk to me the next time I come in. Golden Spoon was following along with Gina's pregnancy and I believe they met the girls before much of our family did. The guest gifts at our wedding were engrave ice cream scoopers, a few of them were tied behind our '39 Packard instead of cans and the tables were designated by flavors, not numbers. Anyway, my point is the addiction runs deep (I'm embarrassed to say our only real tradition is Tuesday nights watching the Biggest Looser and diving into frozen goodness while the people on TV learn how bad it is for them). The gene seems to be one that passes along, and. ... (gasp) our daughters have it. This weekend at the FDF competition they had a soft serve machine, and god have pity on any poor soul purchasing one of these. The girls basically hijacked every cone that walked by. The ordeal is captured in one image that is embedded in my mind forever. My sister-in-law Ilianna running down the convention hall, ice cream in hand screaming as Genevieve chased after her, arms wide open, tongue dangling at full length out of her open, eager mouth. She returned moments later with vanilla residue dripping down her face. Ilianna was never seen again.