When I was a kid growing up in Groves, Texas, my mom would often whisk my brother and I away spontaneously to the Dairy Queen. Mom usually ordered a sundae. My soft serve of choice nearly always ended up being some variation of the blended concoction known as the Blizzard. I mixed in Snickers, Oreos, M&M's, Reese's--I even had my God-awful Nerds phase. Of late, I've been cycling back to my standby, Snickers, when the twice-a-year Blizzard craving overwhelms me.

The most recent wave of warm weather had my head swimming with visions of thick soft serve swirled with candy, so I picked up my four-year-old from preschool and headed to Dairy Queen on a whim.

She requested the French Silk Pie Blizzard (after I explained that it was a chocolate pie mixed with soft serve ice cream), and I ordered my usual. We headed home and sat in peaceful harmony on our back porch, enjoying our treats as they melted into the perfect stage of sloppiness. 

Slurping away, we watched the cardinals pecking at the birdseed, the monarchs fueling up on nectar, laughed as the cat chased our miniature dachshund around the yard, and finally finished our ice cream.

With sticky hands, a frozen tongue, and a full heart, I realized that those spontaneous trips to the Dairy Queen on 39th Street in Groves, Texas weren't really for the benefit of us kids; my mom got just as much out of them as we did. History repeats itself.