My expectations were low. This was a food cart, after all, and I’m from Boston, one of the states that consumes the most ice cream in the nation. “Lavender honey, please,” I said to Molly Moon‘s ice cream man. A small mound of white with flecks of tiny purple was pushed through the window above my head. I reached for it and then slid the cool cream onto my tongue with the tiny, coarse wooden spoon.
Oh my. Hello, fields of France.