Every family has a flavor of summer.
I’m of the era when we still had actual ice cream trucks driving around the neighborhood. On a scorching hot Oklahoma day, we would hear that tell-tale jingle and sprint down to the curb. We’d snag an orange sherbet Push Pop, just like they do in the movies, and lick it as fast as possible before it melted down our already sticky hands. It was a little slice of suburban heaven.
But those aren’t the flavors I remember most.
For me, it’s biscuit debris (aka biscuits and gravy with extra sausage and cheddar cheese on top) from Jimmy’s Egg, the diner down the street from my childhood home. My grandmother, Nan’s, Red Hots cinnamon apples that we lovingly call “Biddos.” So named because when we were little, we asked for a “biddo” (bite of) that.
Ruby-red watermelons as big as your head, sliced in half, and laid down on the bricks to be eaten al fresco in a swimsuit. No table, no plates, no utensils required since washing up consisted purely of another quick dip in the icy waters of my grandparents’ pool.
Simple summer memories that have stayed with me forever.
For Joe, it’s a Friday night fish fry at the North Lake Bear Trap with piping-hot lake perch or walleye fried to flaky perfection. Served in a red and white paper basket with steaming potato pancakes and tart apple sauce, all consumed in the backroom of the local hangout with bearskins on the wall and a full section of arcade games that will take you right back to 1995.
Those are the flavors of our summers past. This summer will be different.
Now, it’s all about our girls.
Somewhere between Joe’s Wisconsin summers and my own childhood rituals, our girls are building a version of summer that belongs entirely to them. Inspired by the Rocky Mountain region where they live, sure. But more so, an amalgamation of the unique tastes each member of our family brings to the table.
To celebrate the start of the season and my in-laws coming to town, we decided to make my mother-in-law’s pistachio coffee cake that’s so delicious it should be a crime, and of course, Rose was my sous chef.
As I stood in the grocery store aisle, grabbing the ingredients for our Sunday morning bake-fest, I briefly considered updating the recipe. Surely there was a more Boulder-approved version I could concoct. Less sugar. Fewer artificial ingredients, perhaps. A little more modern and, dare I say, healthy, even?
Then I caught myself.
We weren’t making a new recipe. We were making Joe’s family recipe, and changing it would be missing the point entirely.
The bright green pistachio instant pudding stayed.
The food coloring stayed.
The connection to those we love stayed.
Back at home with Adeline strapped to my chest and happily dreaming away, we got down to it. Ever the independent lady, Rose insisted it was her ‘work’ and excitedly dumped the dry ingredients into her large pink mixing bowl. Yellow cake mix on her cheek, and beaming with pride, she managed to whisk them together as carefully as a two-year-old can.
Once I handmixed the eggs, sour cream, and almond extract, Rose whispered “Sprinkle sprinkle sprinkle” on repeat as she perfectly dispersed the cinnamon, sugar, and nut mixture between each new layer of fluffy chartreuse batter.
I mean, of course, she snuck finger dips and licks here and there, but for the most part, she waited until I gave her a heaping spoonful to devour at the end. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her happier, and not just because of the cake batter. The kitchen may have looked like a mini cyclone had recently torn through it, but Rose’s sense of accomplishment and joy were worth every spill.
The shared memories were worth it.
Alas, I forgot to adjust the recipe for the altitude difference between Boulder and Wisconsin, so our final product was admittedly a bit dense. Still, it was moist and delicious, and we enjoyed it outside on the covered patio with family. All as it should be. It may not have been the perfect cake, but it was our perfect version of Joe’s family tradition.
Beyond the gloriously green pistachio cake, I’m guessing the girls’ summer palettes will naturally consist of some of Mom and Dad’s nostalgic childhood favorites. Brats still sputtering and hot from the ever-present charcoal grill in our backyard, and fresh sweetcorn that’s absolutely dripping with butter.
Yet, it will also include new bits that are quintessentially us. Panfuls of venison bacon baked by Dad on a random Tuesday morning and jammy strawberry croissants fresh from the weekly family outing to the Boulder Farmers Market.
Or perhaps it’ll be Rose’s favorite, ice cream, like the coconut cone from Sweet Cow she devours quickly before a bike ride back home in the slowly fading summer sun. Or a scoop from Gelato Boy with my Mom, her “Puffy,” during their regular dates to meander on Pearl Street.
Whatever the flavor, Rose and Adeline will no doubt remember these treats with fondness and connection to those they love.
So many of my summer memories were co-created with my family. My Nan, my sister, my mom. Now, my girls are standing beside me in a kitchen of my own, and we are co-creating together too. Building these traditions with them, with all the generations contributing in their own way. It’s a shared family language that I’m delighted to watch take shape.
I’m intentionally becoming the keeper of summer flavor for my little family. And though it’s a new position for me, it’s one I hold with pride and delight.
Katherine Rose Woller is a FoodFamilyTravel.com contributor. Her travel advice has been seen in Forbes, her parenting insights in Parents and The Bump, and her words in The Mother Chapter.
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