I order two scoops of mint chocolate chip in a sugar cone. I like tiny, shaved chips, not chunky ones. The cone is my favorite part. I take bites to avoid dripping. The trick is to keep the space between the ice cream and the wrapped napkin licked clean. Once the scoops are flat to the cone, you can relax, then savor the best part: the last cream-filled bite of cone.

My first ice cream memory is the orange roof of Howard Johnson’s. I remember standing in line with my siblings and grandparents. My brother and I ordered vanilla in a cone. My sister ordered chocolate. We always had stacks of those thin paper napkins that could fly on the slightest breeze. I remember my grandfather’s laugh, crinkled eyes, and full-face smile.

The contrast of thick summer heat and cold scooped ice cream demands attention. You can’t eat at your leisure. Too fast, and you get “the headache.” Too slow, and sticky soup coats your hand. Just the right pace, and each lick tastes like the first. The sugar rush brings smiles bursting with laughter. If you order more than you should and finish it, your head grows heavy, and you nod off on the ride home.

Ice cream with our children added a layer of responsibility: being in public with food that melts the moment you step back from the counter—fortunately, our twins prefer ice cream in a cup with a spoon. The spoons are always too small, and the cups can topple over, but you don’t have to worry about dripping.

We would scout an umbrellaed table, and my wife would save our seats while our twins and I got in line. When they were little enough to hold hands in public, I would place their order, hand them their spoon-crowned cups and grab as many napkins as possible. When they got old enough to see over the counter, I stood behind them and smiled as they placed their orders and reached out to pay with clenched dollar bills.

Back at the table, we would deal the napkins like cards. Eating time was quiet. The cups relieved us from parental drip duty. We would sit together, salty from the ocean and burned from the sun, with nothing to do for the rest of the day.

Now my mom and dad are grandparents. The old Howard Johnson’s has changed hands many times, and the orange roof is painted brown. Soft ice cream has become the thing, toppings are essential, and the cost of a few scoops would buy dinner for the family back in the day. Details aside, the ritual remains. They still haven’t figured out how to make napkins that won’t fly. Umbrellaed tables with easily tipped chairs are still the décor. The list of flavors has grown longer. But the oasis of time spent eating against the dripping clock remains untouched.

Sugar mixed with milk and cream, whipped, and chilled. No nutritional value. An unnecessary culinary invention. Irreplicable at home. A priceless reminder: the time we spend with the ones we love determines our quality of life.

I can’t wait to meet our grandchildren, stand in line holding their hands, place their order, grab a stack of those napkins, and share a quiet moment enjoying ice cream together. I wonder if they will prefer cups or cones.