The essence of pure joy in my earliest memory can be distilled down to 3 ingredients that are relatively unremarkable on their own. Milk, sugar, and vanilla. Three ingredients that, when combined with fresh-fallen snow, make a luscious treat; a delightful dance of flavors on the tongue, best enjoyed with good company and a steaming cup of hot cocoa.

My MawMaw knew all about snow cream. The one time it snowed while we were visiting, she let us get out the fancy root beer glasses to make snow cream floats. Sugar in excess was her way of lavishing love. We’d dip the glasses in water and immediately put them into the freezer. In about an hour when they were good and chilled, she’d send us out with a pan which we would fill with powdery snow.

Once inside with our crystalline treasure, our dad would pour in some milk, a little sugar and some vanilla and gently, GENTLY fold all the ingredients into each other, so as not to bruise the frosty fluff that was the very foundation of our delectable dessert.

The snow cream, thick and rich, would be spooned into the ice cold root beer mugs right away, and topped off with a little of the bubbling sassafras tonic (A&W, of course!).

It was like Christmas in a cup – the ice crystals from the snow cream chilling the root beer into a kind of creamy slush while the glow from the Christmas tree beckoned us to the living room where candy dishes of peanut brittle and soft peppermints waited to be eaten in the haze of family merriment.

There’s not a snow day in my adulthood that has gone by without me fixing myself a bowl of snow cream. Sure, I use splenda now and fat free milk, but the ritual is the same. The care with which I collect the freshly fallen snow, the gentle GENTLE folding together of snow, sugar/splenda, milk and vanilla. The anticipation, and on the rarest fancy occasion, a chilled glass and some root beer.