45 *8 cups snow *1/2 cup milk *1/2 cup evaporated milk *1/2 cup sugar *1 tsp vanilla *chocolate chips *snow covered boots and numb fingers Fresh snow means fresh snow cream. To me, it was always a secret recipe passed down through the hands of mothers and grandmothers till it reached my small, eager fingers. With snow falling thickly down, we would set one of the silver metal bowls on our deck. Nestled into several inches of snow, the bowl would scorch our fingers after it gathered a fresh layer of flakes. Hands aching from the cold, I would rush inside to the kitchen island, where my mom and brother had spread and measured all the ingredients. Haphazardly, we threw everything into the bowl, desperately stirring it together with a spatula. Fighting the quickly melting snow, we scooped it into three smaller bowls, grasped our spoons, and devoured the vanilla-snow. To me, snow cream was a rare delicacy. The danger of it melting before I could mix in the ingredients added a layer of excitement and apprehension. I knew how quickly it could disappear, leaving nothing but a soggy reflection of something beautiful. Sometimes, though, I wished the snow would disappear a bit faster. I liked shoveling snow, but I also hated it. The first few minutes are fun, with the sharp air wafting through your nostrils and tightening the skin on your face. Manual labor holds a certain
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