Happy 4th of July, everyone.
Ice balls. Going into the shop in the old building, looking in a glass case to see the colors available. The grands always choose by color, not flavor. Chipping down the ice to make it just so. Sitting outside, watching cars pull up and people go in, guessing whether they will come out with ice balls, ice cream, or chocolate. Ending up with a tongue that's red or blue or purple.
There's a definite rhythm to eating ice balls, a way of sitting still and concentrating. It can't be hurried.
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