But July has been dubbed "Ice Cream Month." So damn the cholesterol ... I'm filling up on the cold stuff this month. Why, it's almost my patriotic duty!

You've heard the old saying— "I scream, you scream, we all scream for ice cream!" Well, I'm screamin' for a cup, a cone, or even a generous helping right out of the carton ... it doesn't much matter. I just love the stuff.

Whether it's the Swiss Milk Chocolate at the Leatherby Family Creamery in Los Angeles, the Butterfinger Blast at the Clovis Ice Cream Connection, or the Avocado at Mitchell's Ice Cream in San Francisco (OK, maybe not the avocado), I'm willing to try them all.

I have to admit to this personal weakness, and I can't seem to get out of a grocery store without a carton or two of the frozen taste treat in my shopping cart (OK, maybe even three if I have one of the boys with me).

It's almost like the spirits of Ben and Jerry are actually there in the freezer aisle, taunting me as I go by.

"Try the Phish Food," whispers Ben.

"No, try the Cherry Garcia," teases Jerry.

"Hey, why don't you try them both!" a very familiar third voice will howl. Ah, geez, that's me!

So I invariably grab a couple of pints and take them home with me.

Of course, by the time I get to the tasty pints in the freezer at home, they've usually been devoured to the point that only a spoonful or two remains in the bottom of the carton (even the one that was strategically jammed behind the frozen enchiladas and underneath the frozen peas).

"You didn't think you could fool me that easily?" laughs the youngest, the final remains of the New York Super Fudge Chunk still clinging to his chin.

I suppose it's not all his fault. After all, I used to use ice cream as a sort of reward system for the boys as they were growing up.

"Hey, get an 'A' on that report card," I'd say, "and I'll buy you a banana split."

Or, "Hit a home run, and I'll get you a milkshake."

Or even, "Hey, go to the mall with me and I'll buy you an ice cream cone."

What's more, it always worked ... at least until they got old enough to get around by themselves and buy their own ice cream.

It's a practice I learned from my mom.

You see, when I was a kid she used to bribe me with—yep, you guessed it—ice cream!

"Would you go to the store with me?" she'd ask in her sweetest mom voice.

"No," I'd whine, "I'm watching cartoons."

"I'll buy you an ice cream cone!"

Well, the heck with Heckle and Jeckle! I was headed to the store.

But who could blame a guy? After all, we had this beautiful new Baskin-Robbins on Santa Cruz Avenue, and they had 31 flavors to choose from!

It was almost too much for a 10-year-old's brain to comprehend. The days of chocolate, vanilla and strawberry were gone. Sure they had those three flavors ... and 28 more!

I would ease my way slowly down the glass counters, pondering the possibilities. Would it be rocky road with cherry vanilla? Mint chocolate chip with peppermint? Fudge ribbon with lemon sherbet ... Sherbet? How the heck did that get in there!

"Well, what would you like?" Mom would patiently ask.

"Um, I can't decide ... how many scoops can I get?" I'd ask every time.

"Two."

"Ah, let me get three scoops this time ... pleeeeaaassse!" I'd beg.

The answer was always the same.

"You may get two scoops and that's it. If you can't decide, then you don't have to get anything at all."

I could always tell by the tone of her voice that I'd pushed her to the limit. So I would quickly give in and decide on two scoops.

Thing was, despite all of the tempting choices, I would always settle on the same flavor.

"Two scoops of licorice, please," I would tell the scooper.

It was thick, black, licorice-flavored ice cream. It looked disgusting, but I loved it. Go figure!

That was a long time ago, though. Baskin Robbins hasn't carried that particular flavor for years, for what reason I don't know. And no one else seems to carry it.

So I've had to suffer through the years on Gold Medal Ribbon and Peanut Butter 'N Chocolate, Phish Food and Chunky Monkey ... even chocolate and vanilla!

But like I told you in the beginning, don't ever let it be said that I'm not a guy willing to do my part.

Now, is there any of that Cherry Garcia left?

Want to talk? Call me at 408.354.3110, ext. 31, or drop me a note at dsparrer@svcn.com.