It was freakin' cold last night. Not "stop-the-world" cold--more like "oh-my-it's-finally-winter-I-don't-think-I'm-dressed-properly" cold. So The Boy and I met my husband in Lexington town center (he had just biked in from Cambridge, studded snow tires and all). It seemed like a night for soup, so we hit Lemon Grass. Then, despite the cold, we thought we'd round out the evening with a quick stop at Rancatore's, down the block. Because any time is the right time for ice cream.
Apparently we weren't the only ones who thought that IC was the perfect accompaniment to the frigid night air--the place was packed. Tables were at a premium. Kids plopped themselves down at the counter while teens stood around, eating cones and sundaes. After we finished, instead of lingering, I gave up our table to a mom struggling with two kids (one in a stroller and one in the coolest winter coat EVER--like Hello Kitty, but much, much better).
At first I was baffled. I mean, really--I will eat good ice cream anytime (emphasis on good). But Ranc's was overflowing, not just feeding the jones of a single family. In fact you wonder, if there had snow on the ground, like today, would the line have stretched down the block? Is the line stretching down the block as I type this?
Then I realized something: Maybe matching the season with the food is a classic American (or at least New England) tradition. Ice cream in winter. Barbeque in summer. That must be it.
(Or it could be that Starbucks and Peets had just closed, and people needed a place to hang. But I like my first explanation better.)