When I was little, popsicles were doubles. Two popsicles, two sticks, joined in the middle. My mom never let me eat both, I had to either share one with a brother, or put it back in the freezer. No matter if it were 105°, she never backed down. I could have a whole drumstick, or banana split, which was a frozen banana surrounded by ice cream, then a chocolate shell. A whole pushup, which was no big deal - the thing came in what looked like a toilet paper roll, and the last of the sherbet tasted like cardboard. I didn’t much like any of those choices. She firmly believed that something made of ice would thin my blood.

At one time, I wished fervently to have a tonsillectomy. Never mind that there might be pain, all I heard were the magic words, ‘all the popsicles you can eat’.

Now I can eat a whole box of 24 if I wanted. Sadly, these are the no-sugar kind, and the thrill is not quite the same. It’s the only fun part of the whole low-carb thing for me. After one or two, my brain shudders in protest, ‘These things aren’t real. Quit eating, or I’ll start with the earworms.’