Review, Food: Kit Kat Blizzard

Every year, for my birthday, I either cajole somebody into buying me an ice cream cake or I buy one myself. Once, I bought one that had a magnificent bass jumping out of a lake.
One birthday as a kid I crawled into the big roomy dog house in the front yard and sat on a pile of cedar chips and an old blanket and read The Lord Of The Rings next to a big slobbery black dog named Natty (by way of Natty Bumpo), the sounds of her breathing and the undulations of her barrel chest stirring lazily in the afternoon.
My aunts came by and I stuck my head out of the doghouse and asked my red headed aunt if she had brought me any money, cedar chips still clinging to my shirt.
My red headed aunt told my mom later on that she thought it was rude for me to do that, but I had just been a kid excited about getting stuff for my birthday, waiting there in the dog house, the smell of books and tar from its roof and big friendly dog hanging in the air.
I did get money that day, along with ice cream cake, and so here I am, more than a decade later, waiting in line for a Kit Kat Blizzard (fucking delicious, by the way), staring at the cakes in the white display case, thinking I could get anything I want written on one of those cakes, for example “Did You Bring Me Any Money?” in icing letters, thinking I could get anything I want drawn on that cake, including a fish, including a book, including a dog.

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