As a child, I was allergic to dairy products.  Some treats were just off-limits.  Among them was my all-time favorite, ice cream.  Even now, although I love ice cream, I don’t buy it often.  (I can eat it without having an allergic reaction, but I have a Tonnage Reaction instead.  Not so good.)

My husband, on the other hand, will go into Seek-And-Destroy mode if someone even mentions the words “ice cream”.  (Or “ice”. Or “food”.  You get the idea.)  He’s never admitted it, but I believe he’s memorized the location of every East Coast franchise of his favorite roadside stop…

Dairy Queen.

I had never heard of a Blizzard before I met my husband.  We just didn’t do road trip desserts.  These days, on long road trips, gas station stops miraculously coincide with DQ locations.  My children know every DQ exit between our home and Indianapolis.  They pace their Blizzard consumption based on our next mealtime.

I have willingly fallen into this trap.  When I’m in the car with the kids, I can easily be persuaded to veer off the interstate and into the DQ drive-thru lane. 

Mocha MooLattes, anyone?

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