I love to write about things that are dear to my heart. I also enjoy writing about things that are dear to my stomach.

I have come to the realization that my brain is as cavernous as my belly. Also, Pavlov's dog has nothing on me. With the mere mention of food, my saliva glands are off to the races.

I have learned through the years that music is magical for most of us. It transcends philosophy, theology, psychology, physiology and all the other "ologies."

Some of you are experts at remembering lyrics. I am not. I can come up with some snippets and snatches of popular song lines, while Kaye stands next to me singing every word.

She was always good at the "Name that Tune" game after hearing a few notes or bars. But I stumped her today. When I try these little experiments, it's always a total surprise to her. This time, I ran up to her while she was washing windows in the kitchen.

"Listen to this," I blurted. "I'll read a few lines of a song, and you tell me the title."

She sighed deeply, as if to let me know that she would tolerate my rude interruption for no more than 30 seconds.

That's all I needed: "In the land of ice and snows/ Up among the Eskimos/ There's a college known as Ogiwawa! You should hear those college boys/ Gee, they make an awful noise/ When they sing their Eskimo tra-la-la."

Kaye responded with that strange countenance that indicates absolute puzzlement and perhaps even disdain.

Then I began to sing the chorus: "I scream, you scream, we all scream for ice cream!"

We laughed loudly and sang together. It set the tone for the rest of the day. She washed windows with renewed vigor, and I pecked out the rest of this column. It's only fair.

I remembered researching a guy named Howard Johnson who penned the famous "M-O-T-H-E-R" song. He also had a hand in the silly ditty titled "Ice Cream." He teamed up with Bill Moll and Robert King in 1927 to put that one on paper, and it wasn't long before the world was chanting that now-famous chorus. As you have no doubt discovered, however, the rest of the lyrics got lost in the shuffle.

I wrote an e-mail to our friends Jack and Chris in Virginia about how much Kaye and I enjoy soft ice cream at this time of year. Jack responded by talking about the ice-cream truck that frequents his neighborhood and how he and his wife join the kids running toward the street when the first notes are heard.

That stimulated my nostalgia nodes. I remembered not only ice-cream trucks down in Westchester County and on the streets of New York City but also at the campgrounds we have visited with our children and grandchildren over the years.

Some trucks just rang bells. Others played songs and jingles. The ice-cream trucks have become iconic in our society and I, for one, hope they never fade away.