On our terrace, the first poppy has bloomed and the irises are only days away from bursting open. The afternoon sun makes our living room so warm that Michael has to pull down the shades.

But my favorite sign of spring’s impending arrival?

The local artisanal ice cream shop has opened.

When I walked in last week, I scanned the flavor choices and then the clouds parted and my dream was fulfilled: hazelnut ice cream.

But we can’t really call this stuff ice cream.

Nor is it gelato.

It’s something in-between. Scooped out of a bucket like hard ice cream, but so light and smooth that, in the summer, it takes only milliseconds for it to start melting.

I handed over a five Euros and, in return, was rewarded with my favorite flavor of all time.

As I received my change, a man and a young boy walked in. As I left, I heard the boy ask for a crepe.

And my heart stopped.

They have crepes here?!

“With nutella?” the woman behind the counter asked.

They have crepes with NUTELLA?!

So it should come as no surprise that, within a week, I was back.

But not for ice cream.

I sat at the wooden table, a grass umbrella shading me from the bright sun, and realized I had no idea how to eat a crepe served on such an unusually shaped cardboard plate. I’d received them rolled up in paper in France, where one peels down the paper as one devours one of the most delicious things ever.

But this cardboard contraption?

No idea.

I considered going back in to ask, but then I saw the oddly-shaped spoon I’d been given. That would have to do.

For you Americans who think you know Nutella, I challenge you to do a taste test: European version vs. American version. There’s a difference.

When I’m in the US, I’ll only buy the American version if I’m desperate.

If I have to choose between the American version or none at all, most of the time I’m going home Nutella-less.

But here in Spain? I try not to buy it as it’s astonishing how quickly it disappears in my house.

But sometimes there’s this incredible force that pushes my hand towards the jar in the supermarket. I just can’t seem to control it.

So when I get home, I allow myself to only eat as much as I can get on one teaspoon. Until the next day, when I try to follow the same rule.

But sometimes that same incredible force causes me to pull out a tablespoon. . .

Luckily, Michael and I moved two weeks ago and I can no longer get to a grocery store in thirty seconds.

The Force has not yet caused me to take the now-seven-minute walk to the supermarket. Probably because it doesn’t have enough power to get me back up the steep hill to my house.

When we lived in Valencia, I could get to Magnum’s chocolate covered hazelnut ice cream bars in three minutes. I could get to an ice cream shop in five. The ice cream shop was in a direction I rarely went. But those Magnum bars? I had to control The Force nearly daily.

I can’t find the chocolate covered hazelnut bars in my current hometown. So hazelnut ice cream has become a seasonal decadence.

I’ll do my best to make up for all the months I have been deprived.