Quickly: when I say the word "wine," what do you think of? California, Virginia, or New York? Spain, Chile, or Australia? Chateaux or vineyards? Silver trays of champagne circling through a wedding reception? Winos swilling rotgut? Seventies swingers dipping bread cubes into fondue while pronouncing the Mateus "amusing?" Drunken college kids doing box-wine funnels? Or do you think of dessert?

All summer, my yearly seizure of frozen dessert making has been in full swing. You know the drill: as a season dawns, you feel besieged by the love of seasonal ingredients and compelled to express the love in your kitchen. In fall it's pumpkins and in spring it's the first vegetables (vegetable marrows, if you're a Christie fan). And, for me, in summer, it's ice cream. And sorbet. And lemon ices. And milkshakes (cabinets, if you're a Rhode Islander).

And ice cream sandwiches with a bit of that brown wafer still adhered to sticky wrapping paper. And digging through the arctic wonderland of the ice cream case to get to the shy banana popsicle that always hides among the more sociable grape and orange. And the homemade version you found in the freezer in ice cube trays with toothpicks standing at attention. And dashing into a convenience store off the interstate for a cherry slush. And walking through the county fair, trying to eat your snow cone before it melts and a sluice of sugary water runs out of the hole in the bottom of the conical paper cup and down your arm, screaming "buffet" to the mosquitoes who were killing time waiting for you to come along.