There's an old saying my grandaddy lived by: "Tis bad luck to eat the first snow." LOL, of course he didn't say it like that, he’s a Black man for goodness sake. But one thing is for sure, grandaddy knew to wait for the second snow - the clean one, the pure one, the one meant for making memories.
This winter will be different. It'll be my first time making snow cream without him. Two months since he left us, and I already feel the ache of not being able to make that phone call - the one where my cousin Nina helps him with Facetime on his phone (grandaddy having a IPhone still trips me out) and I spend most of the time talking to his nostrils. I'd pretend I didn't remember the recipe, just to hear him walk me through it one more time.
"Grandaugh-ter," he'd always begin, his voice a bit raspy, deep, perfect, "you need uh, uh, uh uh uh, eggs. “And uh rum, sweetened condensed milk."
The Recipe He Left Behind
A big bowl of fresh, clean snow (never the first snow)
2 cups heavy cream
1 can sweetened condensed milk
2 cups sugar (because sometimes more is more)
1 Tablespoon vanilla extract
1 egg
Love (the most important ingredient)
But the real recipe was in the ritual. The way he'd test the snow's readiness. How he'd mix the ingredients with careful precision while telling stories about my grandmother. Mostly me prompting these stories with a ton of questions! The joy in his voice when I'd call, needing him to remind me of proportions we both knew by heart.
Making Snow Cream Without Him
I know the recipe now. Could probably make it in my sleep. But knowing and doing without him are two different kinds of knowing. This winter, when the second snow falls, I'll:
Gather the ingredients, laying them out just like he did
Look up at the sky and think of him
Mix everything with the same care he showed
Tell my nieces about their great-grandfather
Probably cry a little into the snow
Make it anyway, because that's what he'd want
The Thing About Traditions
They're not just about the end product. They're about:
The stories we tell while making them
The people we miss when they're gone
The love that seasons every batch
The memories that taste sweeter than sugar
The legacy we carry forward
To Grandfather
I'll wait for the second snow, just like you taught me. I'll use the good cream and plenty of sugar. I'll tell your stories to anyone who'll listen. And even though I can't call you anymore, I'll hear your voice in every spoonful:
"Uh, uh, uh, Nina, Karman, Vicki, girl…you know who I’m talking to..."
And I did know. I do know.
For Those Missing Someone This Winter
Maybe you have your own Granddaddy. Your own recipe that's really a love story. Your own phone call you can't make anymore. Know this:
It's okay to cry into the snow
It's okay to make it differently
It's okay to miss them fiercely
It's okay to keep their tradition alive
It's okay to need them still
The Next Second Snow
When it comes, I'll look up and whisper, "This one's for you, grandaddy." And somewhere, I hope he's smiling, knowing his snow cream legacy lives on - in my kitchen, in my memories, and in all the second snows to come.
[In loving memory of Grandaddy Garland “Bud” Jones, who knew that sometimes the sweetest love stories are told in snow cream.]
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