Too often, summer passes without a certain touchstone that makes it summer: a beach picnic or Wooden O Shakespeare. Raspberry season passes without a berry, or pesto doesn’t get frozen for the winter months.

Although there may have been gaps in this recent eventful summer, the gaps did not include strolling Ballard Avenue and eating gelato.

I like to designate a theme for each summer. This year’s theme is the summer of gelato.

Whenever someone suggested meeting, I proposed Ballard Avenue. On non-farmers market days, it seems quiet and quaint.

Every time another business applies for sidewalk seating on Market Street, I wonder who wants to sit next to the cars waiting for the light, engines running. It’s different on Ballard Avenue, without traffic lights or parking pay stations.

Throughout the summer, as various friends passed through Ballard from Manhattan, Palm Springs, Capitol Hill and more, I would meet them on Ballard Avenue to stroll before deciding where to eat.

The given was that for dessert we would have gelato at D’Ambrosio Gelato. The new gelato place on Ballard Avenue is just that good, with its Bewitched Ricotta and my constant, the Caffe Scuro.

One day, I was walking toward Market Street on Ballard Avenue slowly eating my gelato in its small compostable cup. A couple passing made approving noises.

“Do you think twice a week is too much for gelato?” I asked.

The woman replied, “I don’t think once a day is too much.”

This summer seemed slower than last, sweeter. (Last year was the summer of the book deadline).

One week, I met different friends on subsequent Mondays for the combination of crepes at Miro Tea and the two-scoop small gelato at D’Ambrosio.

One Friday, Martin and I ring shopped on Market Street, and then to celebrate finding him in a wedding band we went for gelato. I like to window shop while taking little tastes, always managing to stay close enough to return my dish to their special compost.

That Friday, I noticed the Parfait ice cream truck was parked just outside of Venue on 22nd Avenue Northwest.

“We should have an ice cream too, so that we’ll have a good basis for comparison,” I said.

It was decadent. It was extravagant. Martin thought it was a great idea.

When it came time for my last Friday in Ballard before heading east to be with family, the day before my 50th birthday, my friend Jo-Ann acted as though I was princess for a day.

“Whatever you want to do,” she said.

Somewhat ashamed and definitely apologetic, I admitted that I would like to have a pedicure.

This would be the first one on my own initiative. I had been treated to pedicures while visiting San Francisco and one the day before the wedding but I’d never uttered the words, “I want a pedicure,” before.

It would be the actual first in my friend’s life, but she was willing to accept this great unknown on my behalf.

It was the perfect day. We walked to Golden Gardens and then changed our shoes for the walk to downtown Ballard.

After making an appointment with one nail salon, we changed our minds and attempted with much language difficulty to cancel our first appointment and make a second.

Perhaps because it was to be Jo-Ann’s first time, we decided on a spa pedicure at the new Hoa Salon next to Duque. It was so peaceful there, except for the massage chairs that seemed to be trying to eject me like a rodeo rider on a bucking horse.

After an hour of shin and foot massage, we blinked in the daylight on the east side of Ballard Avenue, peering at our newly colored toes.

“Now gelato,” I said.

Likewise, it was Jo-Ann’s first gelato on Ballard Avenue after just watching me purchase and eat one before. This time I insisted that she order one for herself.

Then we walked slowly along Ballard Avenue, she with a cone, me with a cup. Tourists asked the way to the Locks. My enthusiastic gesture to the west sent gelato flying – onto Jo-Ann’s toes.

Still, Jo-Ann said, “Isn’t this street the best place in Seattle?”

And, the next day she suggested we go back for another gelato.