It's important to have bourbon, or at least the pretend bourbon that comes out of the kitchen tap and can be made colder by frozen pretend-bourbon cubes, on hand if you're going to be up late writing.
It's also important to have vanilla ice cream on hand, because you can do anything with it.
Vanilla ice cream with cinnamon and nutmeg is a good idea.
Two summers ago, I walked into the admin building (slash dining hall, slash staff hangout) at my summer camp and found that Nathan had just put maple syrup on Justin's ice cream, and it was apparently really good. They were trying to tell me this, but they had no vocabulary: all they could do was gesture wildly and sputter a little bit. I might have understood had they been Italian, but alas, they both have sandy-colored hair and it took me a long while to figure out what they were saying.
When I did, I rolled my eyes at them. "You know what's really good on ice cream is --" I glanced up at the spice/condiments shelf. "Ketchup. Ketchup is good on vanilla ice cream."
I was about to walk away when Nathan (tall, thin, track runner) bounded and flailed from his chair to the spice/condiments shelf and brought the ketchup back to the table. Justin took a spoonful of ice cream, topped it with ketchup, and ate. And sprinted to the cooler to get a mug of grape cool-aid to get rid of the taste.
I blinked. Blinked and watched.
You can't try ketchup on ice cream without also trying mustard. And mayonnaise. And garlic. And chili powder. And one by one, everything else on the spice/condiments shelf. Every time it was the same: Justin topped a single spoonful of vanilla ice cream with something from the shelf, tasted it, made a face, chugged the grape cool-aid. Basil was bad. Tobasco sauce was bad. Pepper was bad. Salt was...
Justin cocked his head. "Actually, other than being a little crunchy, it's not that bad," he said.
"Kind of like eating your own boogers," Nathan said.