Eat ice cream. It’s good for you.

What could be better — or worse — than ice cream? It’s cold. It’s sweet. It’s creamy. And it’s deadly. Or so I thought, until running across a new nutritional rating system that actually says honest-to-god, nothing-held-back ice cream is better for you than all the concoctions designed to take the edge off this essential summer experience.

Ice cream better than non-fat sorbet? Better than low-fat frozen yogurt? Better than popsicles? Rejoice. The answer just may be yes. If you subscribe to the wisdom in a new food rating system that takes a broader view of the value of the foods we eat.

The Nuval system looks at more than just whether a food is low-fat. Or whether it’s low-sugar. Or whether it has no “trans fats.” Instead, it provides a score of between 1 (less valuable nutritionally speaking) and 100 (most valuable) based on the food’s overall contribution to the nutrition we need.

How does Breyer’s Extra Creamy Vanilla Ice Cream rate a 45 while the Haagen Dazs Fat-Free Strawberry Sorbet rate a 1? While it’s not exactly a health food, at least the Breyer’s has the benefits of milk: calcium, vitamins and even some fiber. Sorbet, on the other hand, is little more than sugar water.

So, before the snow flies (which won’t be long now), I dedicate myself to an occasional indulgence in REAL ice cream. Like last night’s pure, frozen, sweetened cream kicked around by my kids in our little two-pint “Ice Cream Ball“ last night.

Or the Butter Pecan I had at The Pearl a couple Saturdays ago.

I won’t just order frozen vegetables when the Schwan’s guy comes next Thursday.

And maybe, very soon, we’ll all be reading labels for the “Nuval” score.

Flying children

I wanted to sleep later this morning, but there was this nightmare.

The whole family is departing a jolly party. Professor Biker is carrying out his parting schmoozes. My 11-year-old, a.k.a. Little Fire, and her seven-year-old brother, a.k.a. Sweet Slugger, are vamping in the snow outside.

There’s a sled. Fire decides to slide down a big pile of snow. She’s in a red parka just like the little boy in The Snowy Day. I turn away to check on the goodbyes. When I turn around, my girl has accidentally hooked her sled or her coat onto a passing mobile crane or tow-truck or something doing 40 or 50 MPH. Suddenly, she is flying up the street, arms and legs akimbo, whooping and hollering like she’s actually not terrified. FLYING.

Anyone near my bed would have heard my screams. In my dream, I run frantically down the street, shouting to the driver to stop. There is no catching up. So I stand in the middle of a city block, turning a 360, watching my girl fly up one street, down another, back another and then off toward who-knows-what.

I woke in a cold sweat and made sure Little Fire was still safely tucked into her Saturday morning sleep-in. Still my girl. Not flying away. Not yet.