For ten summers, I attended an all girls sleep-away camp in the Pocono Mountains. For seven years as a camper and three years as a counselor, I lived for sticky poolside days and cool nights snuggling around the campfire. I loved every minute of camp. Even when the job wheel sentenced me to toilet duty or I lost count of the number of mosquito bites on my left leg alone, I would swear there wasn't a happier girl in the world.

Camp is so wonderful because of traditions: uniforms on Friday nights, banquet at the end of each summer, songs for every emotion, occasion, and weather condition. Camp food traditions are a category on their own: S'mores and bug juice are a given, but I'll never forget the plates of ice cream we'd get once each summer, the best grilled cheese in the world, and donuts and Firecracker popsicles on the Fourth of July.

Now I know that it's popular to eat this frozen treat every year on that day, but when I was younger, I remember thinking how brilliant it was that camp had found these beautiful and delicious red, white, and blue popsicles to serve in celebration They were left out after lunch, and I could barely get through morning activities in anticipation. We always had to debate which flavor (red cherry, white lemon, or blue raspberry) was tastiest, and I always chose lemon, struggling to lick the top and bottom of the popsicle first to save the middle for last.

Sometimes during the summer, I see them when I'm food shopping. I wonder if they taste the same, and I consider purchasing a box. But then I pass them over, knowing that the memory of licking them with friends on dining hall steps is all the sweet I need.