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I started looking at recipes that involved homemade ice cream and that’s great and all if you wish but as my son is perfectly happy with a good old-fashioned chocolate-vanilla-strawberry trifecta from the store, I decided to save my energies.

Many recipes either had you either make a cake from scratch or box mix or use a storebought pound cake, but we here have a fondness for frozen brownies (extra chewy and fudgy!

Then I started to attack myself for letting this “ruin my day.” I was caught in an ego tailspin.

I thought I was suffering because of what was happening on the outside.

Over the summer, my husband and I took turns taking our son out for dinner one a week night to give him a break from (I mean, not to point fingers or anything) the occasional yelling/food-flinging dinnertime antics of The Interloper, a.k.a. On one of my evenings, he pointed to the top of one of the many mirror-covered walls at the restaurant with the menu scrawled over it and said “What’s a Baked Alaska?