Instructions: I mourn the waning days of summer. Not because Ill miss the warm weather.

Not because Ill miss the joy of diving into a cool, clear lake or the feeling of the wind rushing by my face as I pedal down a country lane. Not because Ill miss the ease and lightness of summer dressing.

No, what Ill miss most about summer is ice cream.

You see, I live for ice cream. I celebrate when local ice cream stores uncover their windows and unlock their doors in May. To me, thats the true sign that the cold, gray days of winter are over.

I cant pass an ice cream stand without stopping in to see what it offers. If its locally made, Im a goner. Seldom a day goes by that I dont indulge in a dish of creamy chocolate or, my favorite, an ice cream soda, made with BOTH ginger and chocolate ice cream.

The richer, the creamier, the deeper the flavor, the better. Dont talk to me about calories. Dont preach about sugar. Join me instead, and as you slowly lick that cone, youll feel lifes daily stresses and a different weight, the weight of years, fade away.

I savor the coolness, the melting in my mouth. Its a joy that goes back to my childhood, when my grandmother used to make me ice cream sodas when she babysat me. To this day, I cant resist slurping down the last drop, as I gaze furtively from side to side, hoping no one is within hearing distance.

My first job was as a waitress in an ice cream restaurant. I learned how to make perfect, round scoops; to create a perfectly balanced, three-layer cone; and the difference (which exists only in New England) between a frappe and a milk shake (a frappe is made with ice cream; a milk shake isnt).

Now I know you can buy ice cream all winter long at the supermarket or purchase a dish at a restaurant, but its not the same. I dont want just any ice cream, I crave fresh ice cream; the kind made on a local farm or in a local kitchen. The kind with a local reputation, not the ice cream brands marketing has created, but those where flavor has triumphed.

In truth, its more than flavor; its ambiance, too. Little beats licking a cone while sitting at a farm-stand picnic table overlooking a pastoral landscape; the sun working to melt the ice cream faster than you can lick.

(O.K., watching a soda jerk at an old-fashioned fountain counter drizzle hot fudge over a glistening bowl of vanilla is right up there; especially if the counter stools swivel.)

Sometimes as I swivel, lick and slurp, I read the newspaper headlines, and I wonder: How will we ever achieve world peace when we cant even agree on ice cream: hard serve or soft; sugar cone or plain. Then, I realize, perhaps ice cream is the solution. It is a universal treat. It triumphs over differences, uniting us in indulgence; at least for the summer.

Just make mine hard and serve in a sugar cone.

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