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There's something about small talk that gets easier in the spring.
When I was 12, my mom bought me a half-gallon water bottle because I joined the cross country team -- plain red with a white lid and convenient-carry handle. The illustrated label showed it gleaming in a vaguely idyllic campsite where everything was Coleman brand, bonfire and all. Every Saturday morning, even if we were already running late, Mom would empty the ice maker into the water bottle until it couldn't hold any more then fill in all the gaps with water from the sink, the lukewarm liquid melting the hard, dry edges of the ice cubes.