Usually that's all we manage, a drive-by style of tourism.
We drove through Hershey, Pennsylvania but didn't get to stop and spend time at Hershey Park. Which is ok by me because I'm not a big fan of roller coasters. Or crowds. Or chocolate.
|I fiddled with the colors here,|
to get that end-of-the-world-
Did you know that Hershey Park began as a picnic grounds for Hershey Company employees in the early 1900's?
|We drove so close to the park, that I|
could have spit out the window
and hit the roller coasters.
Not that I would.
Isn't it cool how the tree
kind of melds into the wooden coaster?
I was surprised that the truck route went so close by the park. The roads were narrow and windy, the Hershey Kisses street lamps were looming in a hostile manner too close to the truck, and then this:
Let's do rock, paper, scissors
to see who goes first.
But sometimes we actually get to stop at the interesting place and then good times are had by all.
Le Mars, Iowa is the Ice Cream Capital of the World. And we went there.
The company that makes Blue Bunny ice cream, Wells Enterprises, has been located in Le Mars since 1913, and more ice cream is produced by them than any other single company in the world.
We visited the Blue Bunny Ice Cream Parlor and Museum last week.
I was excited, by proxy, because Himself loves ice cream. This cannot be understated. He would eat it everyday, several times a day if not for his Superman like self-control. That and the fact that the freezer in our truck is the size of a walnut.
We also wanted to get a tour of the ice cream factory, but they wouldn't let us. The FDA or OSHA or some other un-American organization forbids such things.
Strike one for the old Blue Bunny.
I think Himself had visions of helping out on the line and getting caught up in some I Love Lucy-like episode where he has to eat all the ice cream that's coming down the conveyor belt to keep up production.
It was more ice cream parlor than museum but still, we had high hopes of eating massive quantities of ice cream in every flavor the Blue Bunny makes.
We walked around quickly and read the obligitory ice cream propaganda and then saddled up to the counter before Himself exploded with anticipation. Plus, the drool was getting everywhere.
I ordered a strawberry scoop in a waffle bowl and Himself picked out something called a Frio Grande, described as vanilla ice cream topped with toasted cinnamon coconut and crunchy bits of angels wings or something.
We watched as the gal behind the counter took out a small bag and plop out a ball of something on a plate. It was the Frito Bandito.
She scooped out my strawberry ice cream and put it in the waffle bowl and served our plates. The dejected look on the face of the stoic Himself made me so sad that I pushed my bowl at him and tried to trade.
But no. He wouldn't hear of it. He ate his stale, pre-packaged lump of pseudo angels wings with the patience of Job.
Strike two, Blue Bunny.
And that's enough for me because I don't like baseball. Or Blue Bunny.
|This picture is in the "museum".|
I should have known then
that there would be no angels wings.