When I was a kid, we would load up the Oldsmobile and cruise out to the mountains or Lake Superior for two weeks every bloomin' summer. That meant two solid weeks of my brother reaching across the backseat and pounding charley horses into my thigh. The reward was typically an ice cream cone. We're not talkin' soft serve in a drive-thru. Our destinations were always these really cool mountain tourist towns, that smelled of leather and horses, and there would be REAL ICE CREAM there. I vowed that when I grew up, I wanted to live in a tourist town like that. Horse neck is one of my favorite smells. Take a whiff. You'll sense what I mean.
Maybe, while I'm huddled up under three blankets and trying to finish the next book, I just really, irrationally, want ice cream. Perhaps I want to move to some Wild West town that smells of leather. I'm not too worried about the ice. After all, it always gets warmer. Eventually.