44 45 THE CEDARVILLE REVIEW *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 When I think of home, I think of of snow. My memories have a white, misty tinge. Even in the mosquito-heat of August, the sky carries the promise of snow. Most despise Minnesota’s long winter. They ward off Jack Frost with weekends “up north,” chasing fish and runaway innertubes. Log cabins, sandy beaches, and tiny ocean-lakes trick everyone into staying just a bit longer: “No, it’s really not so bad in Minnesota. Have you been to Duluth?” But winter steals in, sometimes dripping all over October. The first snow is the most beautiful. Just before, some tangible feeling saturates the air. A new layer of cold, a new scent like pine and ice and nostalgia rolled into one, and you know snow is coming. I love it most at night, when I curl up on my window seat, a heavy novel balanced on my knee. Soft blankets shield me from the chill creeping under my window as I study the snow slanting across the sky. A street lamp stands by the road, and the swirling flakes under the light fool me into believing I’ve wandered to Narnia. Even in summer, my eyes always drift to that lamppost. While picking weeds, going on a walk, or driving to work, the lamppost whispers of coziness and comfort. I could find it even in dreamland, a marker which always promises that home is near with its creamy yellow paneling, pine green roof, and ruby red door. One of my greatest joys is to make snow cream. I can picture the recipe in orderly Calibri font, stuffed into one of my mom’s bulging binders.
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