Neapolitan ice cream was a staple of my childhood summers spent playing in my Nonno and Nonna’s backyard. Instead of popsicles, my grandmother always had a huge tub of this ice-cream at the ready for her sweaty grandchildren to enjoy during muggy Montreal summer days. That back yard was a world of fantasy. It was a magical place where we would pretend that we were in a secret garden, an eden that produced a wonderful array of fruit and vegetables ranging from the plumpest tomatoes to figs and squash. The basil plants and garlic bulbs braided together under the large deck gave the air a delicious scent and it was hard to not be mesmerized by the rays of sun peeking through the lush grape vines that climbed the balcony walls. My brother and I would spend the days playing soccer, winding through the rows of tomato plants and trying to climb the apple tree. Sometimes we would collect the tomatoes fallen from the vines and laugh hysterically as we launched them at the passing freight trains, exploding a rain of tomato goo across the tracks. This is my ode to that perfect garden, to those days that won’t soon be forgotten, to the most wonderful childhood where fantasies and dreams were always encouraged and joy was abundant. This is my homage to the twinkle in their eyes as the sun caught their faces while Nonna reeled in the clothes line and Nonno roamed the garden on the hunt for critters munching the plants.