When I was about eight, I had a red pants snow suit with suspenders. The top of the suit was navy blue and white padded flannel. The hat and mittens blended all the colors. I thought nothing of stuffing myself into this when dad said, “Whose ready for snow cream?!” My older brother didn’t seem so interested as my middle brother. He came out in the backyard with us, anyway. Snowball fights were a byproduct of snow missions. There seemed some kind of unspoken rule that older siblings should snow batter each other at every opportunity.
I remember being so absorbed spending time with Dad that I didn’t notice when the snowballs hit me. Having grown up in Texas where snow was only part of fairy tales, Dad was all in.
It was a messy process. I’d gather the best fresh snow with dad guiding me, while my older brother tried landing snowballs near my head. Dad playfully intervened at times by throwing snowballs back at him. By the time we got inside with our fresh bowls of snow, noses were red, and streams of snow clumps melted off our snow suits to the floor. Kicking off our boots, I made it in a hurry to the kitchen. Mom had the ingredients and Dad whipped up the concoction.
It amazed me how the snow held itself firmly enough to make the mix of milk, sugar and vanilla so
delicious, even after minutes of stirring. How I wanted to freeze that moment and keep the sun out
longer in that winter sky, so that we might repeat the feat. But dad retired to his office, where pipe
smoke soon billowed out his open door. My brother got his drawing pad out and I retreated to read or write whatever was in my head on pieces on lined paper. For Mom, supper was now in process.
Day turned night and pitch dark early, but the taste of snow cream lingered. The memory of my dad who headed our mission was what was special to me. Now I go online and see that there’s a million videos and recipes for making snow cream. But there was only one magical mixture for me, the recipe captured in my heart at that time and place.
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