Fried ice cream, anyone?
Hardly was the word spoken and Bear darted off to return with the five quart barrel of ice cream. "Not yet," my husband told him. Cause we weren't finished with dinner, yet.

See, we were having one of our classic, multi-course hodge podge of mismatched foods thrown together by my husband to appease the children's stomachs. A round of texas toast followed by a round of fries followed by a round of whatever vegetable we have around. Until the children no longer seem interested in food.

Seating for these meals is fancy, too. My husband sits in a chair holding a bowl and all the children stand about him, helping themselves from the communal dish.
Less dishes.
My master of fine dining says of his elaborate serving methods. I tell ya, the man thinks of everything.

And somewhere in there Bear heard ice cream.
Put it on the counter so it can soften a little.
My husband said. As you can see, delivering the next course to "the chair" is a perfectly reasonable thing to do in this house. At least when daddy's the cook. And think how he must have felt at the thought of just digging into the ice cream pail while daddy held it! At any rate, maybe the reason for leaving it on the counter shouldn't have been revealed, but next thing we know, there's a clicking sound coming from the kitchen. The click click click of the stove's electric ignition.

Bear had set the plastic tub of ice cream on the stove and was intent on speeding up the warming up.

Fried ice cream, anyone?