Sweet Surrender

I blame my sweet tooth on my father. Fifty years ago, on hot summer nights, my parents and all six daughters would squeeze into the family station wagon and drive to the local drive-in. The ritual always included a stop at the drugstore, where daddy bought candy for us. I remember the thrill of wandering the long aisles in search of the perfect treat — shiny wrappers, tempting packaging, the pure promise of sweetness, each choice feeling like a small triumph. My father also led our frequent visits to the beloved neighborhood ice cream parlor. I still get a nostalgic flutter picturing the giant double-cone spinning slowly on the sign outside. We’d order tall glass dishes piled with three scoops, rivers of hot fudge, mounds of whipped cream and a bright red cherry on top, cups clinking softly as we found a booth. The memory I cherish most is the ice-cream sundae my father always chose, the “Cashew Conquistador,” a nutty caramel concoction he seemed to savor as much for its taste as for the comfort it brought. In those simple years, I learned a basic truth: sweets equaled pure, uncomplicated happiness.