Your description of real (vs UPF) milkshakes truly evoked wonderful memories for me.
I remember all 4 of us - my brothers and sister and me - gathered around the wooden and metal ice cream churn sitting on the picnic table in my grandparents’ back yard in Valley, Nebraska, taking turns at the crank.
And the resulting ice cream - made from whole fresh milk, vanilla, sugar, country eggs, and strawberries picked straight from the garden, washed off with the hose, halved, and thrown into the mix still warm from the sun -
Your description of real (vs UPF) milkshakes truly evoked wonderful memories for me.
I remember all 4 of us - my brothers and sister and me - gathered around the wooden and metal ice cream churn sitting on the picnic table in my grandparents’ back yard in Valley, Nebraska, taking turns at the crank.
And the resulting ice cream - made from whole fresh milk, vanilla, sugar, country eggs, and strawberries picked straight from the garden, washed off with the hose, halved, and thrown into the mix still warm from the sun -
Ambrosia of the gods.
Erika, too many of us will never have such memories. We are privileged.
Yes! And we’re trying to create memories like this for our grandkids, too -
Few things are more precious, Erika.
So evocative and beautifully written. The sense/place memory of food is so strong.
Thanks, Shari. Being in horse cultures in distant parts of the world makes my heart sing.