Many years ago, on the night my husband proposed to me, we went to an ice cream parlor for what was called a "Pig's Dinner."  Six scoops of ice cream were served in a ten-inch-long wooden trough--and anyone who singly finished off the treat got a huge badge with a blue ribbon that proudly proclaimed, "I was a pig at Mountie's."  It was the beginning of a tradition.

As ice cream devotees, we've always done our share to promote this delectable repast.  No ice cream company ever went out of business when we were around.  And we made sure to teach our five kids the Golden Rule.  "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you" aptly translates to "don't hog all the ice cream."  The family slogan is the familiar street-cry, "I scream, you scream, we all scream for ice cream."  If our freezer supply is down to one carton of ice cream, we consider that the household is about to run out of food.  There are, after all, priorities in life.

It seems strange to us that although our addiction is the envy of some, we're emulated by none.  Sure, others also eat ice cream at parties or for desserts, and others share mid-day, dusk, or nighttime indulgences.  But informal polls taken by various family members reveal that we seem to be the only family anyone knows who celebrates birthdays, holidays, other special occasions, and "oh, well, let's celebrate nothing" days with enormous banana-splits for breakfast.  And why not?  Fruit, nuts, and that milk product of exquisite appeal add up to a nourishing, reasonably well-balanced meal.   (Actually, this family tradition started on a Christmas morning when we were inspired to realize our kids would eat a breakfast if it was special: Santa took away the cookies and milk we'd put out for him, and left us bananas for splits.) 

From time to time there are house-guests who think this occasional breakfast deviation is terrific; and there are those who turn green as they ask where we keep the cereal.  The latter are easy to recognize as the same kind of people who wouldn't dream of defying traditional table-setting laws by putting the family salad plates on the right-hand side for right-handers.  And thereby hangs a tradition of another ilk that we instilled in our kids: don't get so hung up on "what's supposed to be" that you can't accept, enjoy, or initiate  harmless variations.  Ice cream instead of toast was a simple place to start.

Our own laudatory-toasts have always been to good old Marco Polo, who took an early version of ice cream from China to Europe way back near the end of the thirteenth century.  And to George Washington, who was the first in the new world to own a home-style ice cream machine from which he served his guests the "new confection."

For a recent lunchtime anniversary celebration, then, after considering from among romantic, elite, or ethnic restaurants, we not surprisingly opted for an "ice cream pig-out" at a Philadelphia gourmet ice cream emporium.

As usual, we watched the dip-girl jam together another patron's mere three scoops in an undersized dish.  We have our routine down pat.  We requested the big banana-split takeout containers, opened out to use both bottom and lid as troughs.  The girl could hardly restrain her raised eyebrows, and amazed, "Six for each?" when she realized this middle-aged couple wanted two such setups.  We tried to look sensible as we explained that this was our whole lunch: six flavors each of the heavenliest food one might serve the Gods.  Toppings?  Of course not.  We go for the pure unadulterated stuff.  (For the record, this being gourmet ice cream, the tab for those 12 scoops came to $18 and some odd cents; and our wise and wonderful doctor did say it's okay to fall onto the sugar-and-fat-wagon once in a while.) 

As we settled at a table, the young man who'd been behind us in line passed by, licking at a nice, normal-sized cone.  He pantomimed being thunder-struck but the smile and thumb-up made it clear he was in complete rapport with our unorthodox lunch.  But he wasn't finished. 

In retrospect, the experience was still worth it.  After all, we got to eat the ice cream pig-out, while others merely watched.  What does it matter that all eyes turned on us and giggles rippled through the room as he respectfully intoned a long, low, drawn-out "Soo-ooo-ooo-wee-wee-eee."