We took a post-dinner walk to our local ice cream parlor. Mr. P was unduly shocked into giggles when I ordered my vanilla frozen custard with chocolate jimmies. He thought “jimmies” sounded like a euphemism for a man’s, um, family jewels. After I dispelled that notion, he then was most curious about these elongogated flecks of confection.
“We don’t have jimmies in France,” he said, eying my cup covetingly.
I cocked an eyebrow. “Yeah, that’s what I hear.”
