Happy new year 2026! As we step into another year, I'm reminded that traditions are more than recipes – they are bridges across time. They remind us that even when memory fades, love and shared experience can still bring joy.
On some winter Sunday afternoons when I was growing up, my family would make homemade ice cream. The night before, my mom would mix cream – fresh from the milk tank – with sugar and vanilla and put it in the refrigerator overnight. On Sunday afternoon, after church and Sunday school, my dad and younger older brother would go out to the cow tank, chop a bucket full of ice and bring it inside.
Together we poured the mixture into the metal container in the ice cream bucket. Then came the work – layering salt and ice around the metal container in the bucket and cranking until the mixture thickened and it was too hard to crank. If you didn't add enough salt to the ice, it would take longer.
The crank would squeak with every turn, and the salt melted the ice, making the cream mixture cold enough to thicken as it was churned. Sometimes my brother thought I wasn’t cranking fast enough, and he’d offer “encouragement” – a nudge, a word or even a playful punch to my arm.
That evening, after chores and when milking was done, we’d sit down for dinner and, after dishes were done, enjoy a dish of homemade ice cream. It was more than dessert; it was tradition, effort and reward all rolled into one.
Years later, I carried on that tradition into our sons’ preschool classrooms and my religious education classes. I mixed up batches of cream, sugar and vanilla, and brought ice, salt and the ice cream bucket to school or church. When I asked the students what they thought was in ice cream, one boy quickly answered, “Sugar!” Soon, a class full of eager hands shot up to take turns at the crank. By the end of the line, we had ice cream – and a room full of smiles. Their laughter filled the room, reminding me that joy multiplies when shared. The best part wasn’t the treat itself but the joy of sharing a childhood memory with the next generation.
Now, making homemade ice cream has come full circle. A few weeks ago, I mixed up batches of cream, sugar and vanilla, and brought ice, salt and the ice cream bucket to the assisted living center where my brother now lives. He has been diagnosed with dementia, and some memories have faded away.
I imagined that the residents might gather around, some curious, some nostalgic. Perhaps the taste of cream and sugar would unlock a memory or simply bring a smile. Either way, the act of making ice cream together was its own great gift.
Never one to say no to ice cream, the squeak and the rhythm of cranking, the taste of homemade ice cream and the laughter of sharing stirred something familiar with my brother. It was at that very moment I thought he remembered going out to the cow tank with our dad to chop a bucket of ice to bring inside.
So, whether it’s ice cream, or another family tradition, take time to share it. You never know when those small acts will become the sweetest memories – ones that circle back when they’re needed most.
