In the past, I have made the argument that all sorts of absurd things, from fruit crisps to slab pies, pizza, salade lyonnaise, risotto, stuffing (!), latkes, cookie bars and even shamelessly decadent cakes rolled in brown butter and cinnamon sugar deserve inclusion in the first meal of the day. You might say I have no shame at all. I might say that I cleverly rail against the narrow confines of that which we know as breakfast. You might say I’ve gone too far this time, but I’m going to do it anyway: I’m going to make the argument that breakfast popsicles deserve to become a thing.
New York City theoretically has four seasons, but talk to anyone who lives here (or don’t, they will probably complain to you about this unsolicited, um, not that we know any New Yorkers like that) and they will tell you that we really only have two — face-freezing wintry mix and sticky concrete inferno, with about two weeks in-between of all that is good and glorious on this earth (a popcorn-like explosion of blossoms from treetops to sidewalks and fiery carpets of every color foliage imaginable), or in modern terms, the stuff of which “no filter” Instagrams are made. And, lo, not a minute after those spring petals hit the gutters, we had our first few days of eau de hot trash and a peculiar brand of cloying airlessness at which inner cities excel and I wanted to climb into the freezer and never leave.