I came across an article this morning that made me think about what a special roll ice cream has played in my life. Hear me out on this one. I think there are things that all families do, little traditions they start that become a link through the generations. Maybe you have cinnamon rolls on Christmas morning because that is what your mom always did and her mom before her. Maybe you always have family night on Wednesdays and eat popcorn because that is what you did growing up.

For my family, ice cream has always been in the background of our family traditions. Every year when I was a little girl, my aunt and uncle would have a fourth of July party. One of two things you could always expect at their parties, ok three, (one was fireworks and two was my cousin Krissy having some sort of injury or breakdown to force everyone to look at her and give her all the attention) was the homemade ice cream my uncle would make. He would break out the ice cream churn and the ice and the salt and then we would all take turns guessing what the special flavor would be. Would it be pineapple this year? Peach? Whatever it was it was always wonderful.

When I got a little older and started playing softball and then crying after softball because I was the catcher and the ache I would feel in my legs from getting up and down 4,982 times per night was almost too much for a spoiled 14 year old to handle, my dad would take me to get ice cream. We would sit on the bench outside of the ice cream place and I would eat my ice cream slowly to soak up all the free time I could get with my dad.

When I turned sixteen I had an ice cream cake from the Dairy Queen for my birthday. My birthday is in June and we sat on the back porch of the house I grew up in and ate cake before it could melt and laughed about anything and everything. Every kid dreams of their sixteenth birthday and all the freedom it will bring and I will never forget that cake.

When I got even a little older and the girls’ father left and I started raising three little girls alone, my grandma became my ally. She never judged me, she never said hateful things, she would just listen to me whine and complain and she would tell me how somehow I would live through all of this. We would have these talks outside of the J&K market, where we would go on warm summer nights to get the girls an ice cream cone.

The house I moved to three years ago is situated about 2 blocks from a small Dairy Queen. My dad joked when I moved in that that is why I chose this house. Walking to Dairy Queen or stopping by there after a bike ride has become a tradition for the girls and I. At least once in the summer, my parents come over and help me rid the backyard of the jungle that grows there the rest of the year. There is always lots of work and lots of sweating and my kids get beyond filthy dirty helping dig in the flowerbeds and carry branches to the curb. The reward at the end of the day is always an ice cream from the Dairy Queen.

To this day my father sits at the kitchen table or on the back porch, if weather allows, and eats a bowl of Rocky Road ice cream every.single.night. My mother buys them two or three at a time. Being out of Rocky Road ice cream at my mothers is equivalent to being out of toilet paper or toothpaste. It is a staple. It is essential. Now, when my daughters take turns having their alone time with Nana and lil Pap (each one gets a night a week to spend at their house alone) my dad makes two bowls of Rocky Road ice cream, one a little smaller than the other. I like to think that my girls eat their ice cream slowly too. Just to soak up all that free time with their Pap.