Snow Ice Cream

I remember snow ice cream growing up in north Texas during the 1950s. It had to be at least six inches deep, I recollect my father’s instructions. Don’t go all the way to the ground when scooping the snow. You might get something in the pot you don’t want, I have learned by heart. It seems it took at least two kitchen pots worth to make a nice batch for the whole family. The recipe escapes me, but it must have had sugar, vanilla and cream. I do recall that it tasted good and everyone seemed to be giggling while we made it.
When my son was a little boy we had at least a foot of snow in the backyard. We lived in Central Texas then and I knew the snow would melt by noon. We wasted no time in putting on our coats, gloves and hats to go play outside. We had only taken a few steps when I remembered the snow ice cream. I told my son to wait and I went inside to get two pots from the kitchen.
“We’re going to make snow ice cream,” I told him.
“What’s that?”
“It’s ice cream made with snow. I don’t completely remember how to make it so it might taste terrible, but it’s going to be a lot of fun to try.”
“Great!” He grinned real big. He was always one for adventure.
As we walked through the yard I pointed out suitable mounds of snow and he dipped in his pot and filled it. I switched pots with him so he could fill the second one when we came upon a patch that didn’t look quite right. Then I noticed the paw prints through it and my eyes followed them.
A few feet ahead of us was our part Pekingese and part Poodle. He was happily hopping through the snow with little balls sticking to the long silky hair on his legs and his tail wagging.
My son bent over to scoop up the peculiar-looking snow in his pot. I put my hand on his shoulder.
“Not that snow.”
“Why not? It looks like lemonade.”
“Trust me,” I said. “Grandpa taught me never eat lemonade snow.”

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