Nobody I've ever known shared my enthusiasm for this treat. Hell, most had never even heard of it.
And, to be honest, I really don't blame those who grew up in an urban environment or downwind from some industrial plant. But we lived in a small college town--and way back when the thought of eating spoonfuls of frozen acid rain didn't seem that bad.
Snow ice cream consists of vanilla extract, sugar, a little milk and a lot of snow all mixed together in a large bowl.
Not just any snow. It must be fresh and fluffy (and preferably not
yellow), the big soft flakes scooped up just after the precipitation
drifts to an end--at least that's what my mom said, and she heard this
from her mother, who may have been insane.
But there is some method to the madness. Heavy, wet snow tends to melt
immediately when other liquids are introduced. The soft, new fallen
stuff forms stiff peaks that hold momentarily, giving the impression of
ice cream--although there is a balance between milk, vanilla and snow
that must be learned to pull this off.
Really, you end up with spoonfuls of sweetened, vanilla-flavored milk
with a mass of slush in the middle. Not all that appetizing, when you
think back on it.
Except that, as a kid trapped inside by three feet of pre-global warming blizzard, snow ice cream was a fantastic thing.
