Snowball

I love snowballs. No, I’m not talking about the ones you throw at people in the winter in places where snow actually falls from the sky. I’m not talking about snow cones, either. I’m talking about the snowball that can only call New Orleans its home. The ones with the fluffy and perfectly shaved ice with rich, sugary syrup soaking into it.

I remember one summer when I would get a snowball practically every night. I’m boring and always get the same kind: chocolate with condensed milk on top. Yum.

That’s another good thing about moving back to New Orleans: a good snowball is never too far away.

Our North Carolina friends Jennifer and Elisabeth were in town for a few days last week, and I was only too happy to indulge Eli’s request for a snowball the first afternoon they were here. I actually couldn’t believe I had been in New Orleans a whole week and still hadn’t gotten one. So while Jennifer and Riley played on their cell phones, Elisabeth, Erin, and I went to get our treats.

When we returned, my mother somehow convinced me to give Riley his first taste of a snowball. I mean, he did have the perfect bib on for the occasion:

I elected not to let him try my usual but instead gave him a little bit of Elisabeth’s watermelon one.

From the way he was eyeing Elisabeth’s white styrofoam cup after I handed it back to her, I’d say he might be hooked on this particular New Orleans tradition.

Much like my hope that he will foster a great love of books, I will have no problem if he becomes a fan of snowballs.

My waistline may rebel at some point, but at least snowballs are cheap!