My grandfather would tiptoe (I assume this is what he would do, but I can’t be sure since I was sleeping, after all) into the room Amanda and I shared and gently wake us up. We would crawl out of bed and make our way to the kitchen, trying hard not to giggle at our sneaky midnight kitchen antics. Three glasses would already be waiting for us on the counter, the ice cream next to them with a pool of sweat forming around the base of the container (did he take it out to eat some ice cream alone in the darkness before waking us? Smart man, if he did. I certainly would.) Then, he'd open the refrigerator door, the florescent light blinding us in the darkness, and pull out the Coca-Cola. Into the glasses (they were tall) he would scoop some ice cream, and then pour soda right over the top, the foam nearly cascading over the rim of the glass as it raced up the sides. We usually wouldn’t even sit—we'd stand there quietly in the dark, spoon in hand, shoveling as much ice cream and soda into our mouths as fast as we possibly could before our parents (but mainly we were worried most about Grammi) could discover us.