Best 237 quotes in «ice cream quotes» category

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    A WATERY BLISS As busy as an ice cream freezer, On a Sunday getting hotter, Happy is the honey eater- The busy ocean otter, Floating alongside Teter, On a sea full of water.

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    At the end of the day, the argument between spirituality and about spirituality, is all against the nature of spirituality. In arguing spirituality, we go against its very nature. The important question: “Am I being kind in what I am saying/doing”? And that is all. In all truth, to eat an ice cream cone and to smile with the joy of a child, is about a billion times more spiritual of an activity, than to discuss views about spirituality. The experience of innocence; the experience of joy—this edifies ourselves and others. And that is spirituality. An ice cream cone can be the most spiritual object in the universe, at any given time.

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    Damn. That was stupid, wasn't it? We nearly got killed over ice cream.

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    Ask about our daily ice cream special.

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    Brian orders us both Grandpa's Turtle Sundaes, a classic with vanilla ice cream, hot fudge, caramel sauce, whipped cream and nuts, topped with a house-made turtle candy instead of a cherry. Sigh. So much for getting out of the elastic waistband pants anytime soon. But the thing is, it works. Decadent, insane, over the top, but so freaking delicious. Cold ice cream, fluffy whipped cream, the mingling richness of fudge and caramel, perfectly tempered with the salt and crunch of toasted pecans and peanuts. A weirdly perfect food.

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    Each boat-shaped dish held scoops of vanilla and chocolate ice cream beneath thick blankets of chocolate syrup and creamy marshmallow sauce. Mounds of whipped cream rose on top, with a juicy red maraschino cherry at the very peak. Crunchy cookies poked like wings from each side.

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    Do you have any idea how badly I want to pick you up and carry you into my bedroom and make love to you?

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    Eat Ice Cream. Read Books. Be Happy.

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    He looked up from the paper he was scribbling on and offered her a lopsided grin. “Hey, sweet pea. You bring me anything special?” The lopsided bit wasn’t odd, but there was something forced about it. “Got a fresh bag of cat food outside.” Cat food that she’d bought with the twenty he’d left to pay for his ice cream. He pushed his makeshift drum set aside and rose with a stretch. “Words every man dreams of hearing. Make my night if you say you got catnip too.” She tried not to giggle. She tried hard. But she couldn’t help herself. “Extra strength,” she said. This time, his grin came out bigger, less forced. “Woman of my dreams.” “In your dreams,” she said.

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    Darren played with the ice cream before raising a spoonful to his mouth. I watched him lick it before he wrapped his lips around the spoon, closing his eyelids and savoring the flavor on his tongue. He slowly withdrew the spoon from his mouth and opened his eyes. He smiled coyly at my rapt attention. I just wanted to reach across the table, grab a fistful of his hair and lick the ice cream right out of his mouth.

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    Evelyn stared into the empty ice cream carton and wondered where the smiling girl in the school pictures had gone.

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    Falling in love for the first time is a completely transcendent experience. It’s like eating pizza-flavored ice cream. Your brain can’t even process that level of joy. Love makes people do crazy things like kill other people or shop at Crate & Barrel. I think on some level it makes us all delusional. Deep down, our whole lives, no matter how low our self-esteem gets, we think, I have a special skill that no one knows about and if they knew they’d be amazed. And then eventually we meet someone who says, “You have a secret special skill.” And you’re like, “I know! So do you!” And they’re like, “I know!” And then you’re like, “We should eat pizza ice cream together.” And that’s what love is. It’s this giant mound of pizza-flavored ice cream and delusion

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    Here is a good joke. The little boy walks into an ice cream store, He asks for a sundae with extra hot fudge sauce. 'I'm sorry." says tje ice cream man. "Hot fudge only comes in one temperature." Mark, Florida

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    I am not an ice cream come! I am a human being!

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    I am so not kissing you tonight,” she informed him. He chuckled softly. And if she thought his smile was dangerous, his chuckle should’ve been classified as a biological weapon. Sin in a sound wave. “But now you’re thinking about what it would be like, ain’t you?” he said. “Only my stupid parts.

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    Ice-cream?” asked Mitchell. “Oh, thank you! I have sensitive teeth and it must be served cold, icy.. Just like the misfortunes of life.

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    If I can't suck your milkshake through a straw, it's not a milkshake--it's a glass of ice cream.

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    I am forever yearning for ice cream. And cats. Lots and lots of cats.

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    I hope your only rocky road is chocolate.

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    I'm not even going to tell you what I think about what just happened in there. But I know it sucked and I have no idea why you aren't crying right now, but I know your heart hurts, and maybe even your pride. So fuck school. We’re going for ice cream.

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    I had a dream about you. I licked your cone of ice cream. It was envelope flavored.

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    Not having ice cream,” she proclaimed, “is the culmination of all disasters!

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    Mandy smiled cheerfully at an overweight kid in a gold sweater and pink skirt who was chasing her little brother around along the boardwalk. When she was that age, on sunny days she’d be out on the boardwalk with Jud and Wendy, buying rainbow sorbet from the ice cream shop and placing paper boats into the harbour. She felt like a ghost, drifting past the shell of her own childhood.

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    I love your uneven soul, you bloom uniquely in my gardens giving me the most extraordinary view and upon tasting the edges of your temple you do remind me of ice cream.

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    Number of empty Ben & Jerry's containers: 3 -- two mint chocolate cookie, one plain vanilla. (Who buys plain vanilla ice cream from Ben & Jerry's, anyway? Is there a greater waste?)

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    Of course, that rationalization didn't work at all. It would have helped if I'd had some Oreo cookie ice cream to eat that the same time. I've learned that self-delusion is much easier when there's something sweet in your mouth.

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    Moments later as we crossed the road to the 50’s diner, I recited the restaurant rules in my head one more time. Rule one: Keep your hands clean. Rule two: Careful with the food trays. Rule three: Visit the soda fountain as often as you like, but don’t make yourself sick. Rule four: Enjoy the poodle skirt.

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    Once inside the confectioners, she was spellbound by sugared fruits hung in garlands and glass bottles sparkling with morsels of sugar. While Loveday spoke to the shop girl, Biddy trailed the shelves slowly, looking inside the glass jars, mouthing the words on the Bill of Fare. 'Look Mr Loveday, "Macaroons- As Made In Paris"', she sighed, staring at a heap of biscuits made in every color from blue to shiny gold. Carefully he ordered his goods from the jars of herbs behind the counter. First, there was Mr Pars' packet of coltsfoot that he smoked to ease his chest. Then a bag of comfrey tea for his mistress's stomach. Finally, boxes of the usual violet pastilles. Biddy came up behind him while the girl tied the parcel with ribbon. 'Begging your pardon, miss. Is it right you're selling that Royal Ice Cream?' The girl shrugged. 'That's what it says on the board if you can read it.' 'Aye, I've been studying it all right. I've only ever read of ices before. So I'll have a try of it.' When the girl reappeared Biddy sniffed at the glass bowl, and then cautiously licked the ice cream from the tiny spoon. 'Why, it is orange flowers.' She looked happy enough to burst. 'And something else, some fragrant nut- do you put pistachio in it too?

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    One side of his lips quirked up in a sexy smirk. “Got a cure for that frustration you got going on,” he said. “Got a cure for your ego?

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    Sometime all you need is love ... Oh wait! And ice cream, and chocolate to go along with it as nowadays love is anything but sweet.

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    So... Italian gelato. Take the deliciousness of a regular ice-cream cone, times it by a million, then sprinkle it with crushed-up unicorn horns.

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    Stop talking," she said boldly as she closed the distance between them until they were touching. "We can walk to the bedroom or you can carry me but if you don't decide soon I may just go insane.

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    She put a spoonful of mint chocolate chip in her mouth. [...] "Let me try it." She held her bowl toward him, but he didn't put his spoon in it. He trailed his fingers over her jaw as he tipped her head back and sealed his lips over hers. His tongue speared into her mouth, and the salt of him mixed with the flavor of the ice cream. She didn't know if she was mortified, shocked, aroused or all three.

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    She ran her hands under his shirt, over his chest, her cool touch igniting shivers over his skin. “Is this a ploy to get another song out of me?” she asked. “It’s a ploy to get you out of your pants.” “And what, exactly, are you planning on doing once you get me out of my pants?” Will felt his lips curving up again. “Darlin’, you leave the details to me.

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    Some things in life are like ice cream: They’re only good for a while and then they melt. The trick is enjoying it and making the most of it while it’s still ice cream.

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    The most obvious difference between Japanese and American ice cream bars is that if the Japanese bar promises something crispy, it will damn well be crispy. The Haagen-Dazs Crispy Sandwich, for example, is a slim bar of ice cream between two delicate wafers. How do they keep the wafers from getting soggy? Is it a layer of shellac? Maybe it's best not to ask. Crepes, soft but not mushy, are also a frequent player in ice cream bars. Near the end of the month I discovered my single favorite ice cream treat, the Black Thunder bar, a chocolate ice cream bar on a stick filled with crunchy chocolate cookie chunks. I also tried its sister product, the vanilla White Thunder, but in the immortal words of Wesley Snipes:always bet on Black Thunder. Iris and I also became mildly obsessed with Zachrich, a triangular Choco Taco-like bar that looked like a run-over sugar cone, coated with chocolate on the inside and filled with mint ice cream. And Iris often selected Coolish, a foil canteen of soft-serve that you warm with your hands until it's just melted enough to suck out through the spout. (All of these names, incidentally, are in English; I'm not translating them).

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    We were always driven by a gray-haired man in the foster-care agency car. I remember leaving that abusive home, pulling out of the driveway, and seeing sumo Mr. Sanchez’s ice cream truck. He would take us with him when he worked but never gave us any ice cream. Oh, the cruelty! I would have taken real a beating for some ice cream.

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    There is a tray full of glass sundae dishes filled with brightly colored ice cream. Strawberry, pistachio, black raspberry. Pink, green, and purple. I like the colors next to each other and wonder what kind of impossible things I can draw about ice cream. Maybe melting rivers of it. And a man with a cone-shaped head sitting in a babana split dish rowing with a spoon.

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    True to its name (gelato spelled backwards), Oletag is swimming against the tide of cost-cutting convenience that dominates Italy's ice cream industry. Sixty flavors at a given time, rotating daily- most rigorously tied to the season, many inspired by a pantry of savory ingredients: mustard, Gorgonzola with white chocolate and hazelnuts, pecorino with bitter orange. He seeks out local flavors, but never at the expense of a better product: pistachios from Turkey, hazelnuts from Piedmont, and (gasp!) French-born Valrhona chocolate. Extractions, infusions, experiments- whatever it takes to get more out of the handful of ingredients he puts into each creation. In the end, what matters is what ends up in the scoop, and the stuff at Oletag will make your toes curl- creams and chocolates so pure and intense they must be genetically manipulated, fruit-based creations so expressive of the season that they actually taste different from one day to the next. And a licorice gelato that will change you- if not for life, at least for a few weeks. Radicioni and Torcè are far from alone in their quest to lift the gelato genre. Fior di Luna has been doing it right- serious ingredients ethically sourced and minimally processed- since 1993. At Gelateria dei Gracchi, just across the Regina Margherita bridge, Alberto Monassei obsesses over every last detail, from the size of the whole hazelnuts in his decadent gianduia to the provenance of the pears that he combines with ribbons of caramel. And Maria Agnese Spagnuolo, one of Torcè's many disciples, continues to push the limits of gelato at her ever-expanding Fatamorgana empire, where a lineup of more than fifty choices- from basil-honey-walnut to dark chocolate-wasabi- attracts a steady crush of locals and savvy tourists.

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    We grew up on the same street, You and me. We went to the same schools, Rode the same bus, Had the same friends, And even shared spaghetti With each other's families. And though our roots belong to The same tree, Our branches have grown In different directions. Our tree, Now resembles a thousand Other trees In a sea of a trillion Other trees With parallel destinies And similar dreams. You cannot envy the branch That grows bigger From the same seed, And you cannot Blame it on the sun's direction. But you still compare us, As if we're still those two Kids at the park Slurping down slushies and Eating ice cream. Suzy Kassem, Rise Up and Salute the Sun (2010)

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    Well, that’s because they’re wrong and I’m right. No more reading for you. Let’s go get some ice cream.” “I don’t know if the kitchen has any,” Joel said. “It’s hard to get in the summers, and—” “Not from the kitchen, stupid,” Melody said, rolling her eyes. “From the parlor out on Knight Street.” “Oh. I’ve … never been there.” “What! That’s a tragedy.” “Melody, everything is a tragedy to you.” “Not having ice cream,” she proclaimed, “is the culmination of all disasters! That’s it. No more discussion. We’re going. Follow.

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    The Milked Duck was empty, save for Dahlia’s two part-time helpers, but they were all rushing around, anticipating the first guests for her Risqué Flavor Tasting event any moment now. The up front freezers were stocked with Chocolate Orgasm, Peachy Passion, Sexual Favors, Mikey’s favorite Cherry Popper and more. She had a case of Sin on a Stick treats ready to go and a temporary menu up on the board behind her.

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    Two years ago, she had inherited The Milked Duck Ice Cream Shoppe in downtown Bliss from Great Aunt Agnes. After getting her degree in sociology and then bouncing around the country, waffling from job to job and one relative’s couch to another, she’d finally found where she fit: creating and serving happiness to the locals and the destination wedding tourists in Bliss.

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    Women eat ice-cream, men toast marshmallows.

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    You are the most sensual person I know; the goddess of my dreams; the gold at the end of the rainbow; the topping on my ice cream and the best thing that has ever happened to me. And when I wake up in the morning and still find you there next to me, I know that I am living my dream.

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    A Hot Fudge Sundae and a trashy novel is my idea of heaven.

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    After I win a match, I celebrate it by having an ice cream.

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    All this talkin' about eatin' is makin' me awful hungry. I'll have two chili burgers with an order of fries, onion rings and a chocolate milk shake. And a Strawberry Ice Cream Sundae-with pickles.

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    Am I eating chicken or tuna?

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    Among the cognoscenti, though, it is not just about elaborate new flavors. I always consider the main test of ice cream to be the simple ice creams, especially vanilla. One should have fun when one eats, but it should also be seriously good.