Many years ago, when Michael (now 13) was just barely walking, I remember making him snow ice cream for the very first time. I sent him outside, bundled up like the little brother from A Christmas Story, with a wooden spoon in one hand and a big, plastic bowl in the other, telling him to find the cleanest snow he could find.

The first time he did this, I remember how excited he was to make something out of the snow in our yard. And, I’m sure, he was thrilled that I was actually allowing him to put something from the ground in his mouth.

Of course, while he was young, I had to pick dried leaves and sticks out of the bowl before I deemed it edible. Michael would help pour in the ingredients, and I let him think he was doing most of the mixing while I went behind him and stirred it up.

Snow ice cream is a simple treat. We make it with a can of sweetened condensed milk and a little bit of vanilla extract. As time has passed, I have made sure to keep the ingredients on hand every winter.
This last snow, I though, would surely be the one where Michael didn’t ask for his snow ice cream.
But, sure enough, as soon as the forecast showed snow early last week, Michael asked if we’d be carrying on the tradition.

“Of course,” I told him, checking the cabinet to ensure nothing was expired (past-date sweetened condensed milk is no good; trust us on this). My teenage son, armed with bowl and spoon, headed out to scoop up some white snow for our treat. I watched from the window, remembering when he was just a little bitty thing, and was reminded that while he has grown and so much has changed, some things have remained the same.

“It’s not as good as I remember it being,” he told me, after we’d mixed and put the latest batch of snow ice cream in our bowls.

“It’s not the flavor of the ice cream, but the novelty of it, that you remember being so good,” I told him. He nodded, and took his bowl of snow ice cream with him to his room to continue playing video games.

Alone I sat, in my living room with the blinds open, watching as snow continued to fall last Saturday, with the sound of Fortnite coming from the other room, the taste of cold, sweet vanilla on my tongue, and a warmth in my heart for ongoing traditions with my son.