My noshing life could be illustrated by a colorful parade of individually packaged ice cream treats. First there was the Bomb Pop. For us, it was a delicacy that could only be found in the ice crystalled depths of the ice cream truck, and with three complete flavors in one (count 'em: red cherry, white lemon, blue raspberry) it was a child's way of bucking the system, because not only did you get those three flavors in one sticky-running-down-your-hand treat, you also got that bonus gumball at the very top. Plus, those things were ginormous and turned your mouth fancy colors. All good things.
Next came the Kempswich, which was Minnesota's answer to the ice cream sandwich. Huge chocolate chip cookies, a sweet slab of Kemps vanilla ice cream, and those awesomely tiny chocolate chips rolled around the sides. First, you'd delicately eat the chips off, being oh-so-careful not to let any fall, but if they did, the five second rule definitely applied. Once the ice cream was fully exposed, you'd lick around the cookie sandwich, meticulously carving out a path in the ice cream. Eventually you'd be left with two cookies, a small disk of ice cream that your tongue couldn't reach, and a powerful thirst that could only be slaked with tap water. Years later, I dug a Kempswich out of a convenience store freezer case and got a bit depressed. I remembered it being so much bigger -- something I could barely get my mouth around. Now, I could finish it in about two bites. I guess you have to grow up some time.
In college I discovered the Choco Taco and became entranced by the way the sugar cone taco shell was never, ever crisp. It was damp and chewy and pinched the Choco Taco together with each bite -- it was trashy ice cream at it's very best.