Originally published at The Telegraph
I am a self-confessed sweet freak. Several weeks ago, I freely admitted to my passion for French macaroons, but this late-flourishing summer has reminded me of one of my other long-running love affairs… with ice cream. Not just any ordinary ice cream. For me, the thrill of Häagen-Dazs or Ben & Jerry’s has long since lapsed, and those once-famous brands now taste to me like cream-filled tubs of carbohydrate and fat without the thrill of something new, or exotic, or even truly sinful which, after all, is one of the main reasons for sweets.
My passion for ice cream started about 10 years ago in Florence when I was spending a weekend with my son in a frosty January during his first year at university. The joys of the Uffizi, the Pitti Palace and the Duomo were a wonderful way to get out of the freezing cold – indeed to breathe warmth into our souls as only truly breathtaking art can do – but for me the enduring happy memory was walking around the cobbled streets with the hugest ice-cream cones I have ever seen (or eaten) filled with caramel and toffee gelato.