In summertime there is only one correct way to eat ice cream. In a waffle cone. Standing on the sidewalk or boardwalk or lawn or otherwise outside. Preferably with someone close by to smooch the rainbow sprinkles off the corner of your mouth. But this is science. There is no room in my life for paper cups or glass parfait dishes or - oh God, these are the worst - cake cones. If you must chase the ice cream truck for a cherry-flavored rocket ship or some other saccharine mostrosity, by all means, do it. I’ll scale mountains for a bit of summer nostalgia. But if you think that your frozen treatlet requires any more tools or paper products than a single wrapper or napkin for wiping the sticky off your hands after the last bite (to then be thrown carelessly into the hydrangea bush), you are wrong and weak and no longer invited to my dinner parties.