“Here’s the hammer, smash the ice.”
Dad’s burlap-bagged ice block
crumbles under my Thor blows.
Peppermint candy, red and white,
shatters in its bag
under Sister’s hammer-hits.
“It’s time,” announces Mom,
bearing cooked and cooled mix--
top-of-bottle cream,
eggs,
sugar,
vanilla,
junket.
Candy crumbs and wood paddles
slip into cold metal container,
crowned by scarred plastic cover.
Rusted handle reluctantly
aligns into proper position.
Alternate scoops of ice and rock salt
nestle between cannister
and ‘porcupine-chewed’ wood bucket.
“LET THE CRANKING BEGIN,” Dad heralds.
Baby Brother takes his turn,
but tires too soon
and plops to play
with errant ice shards.
Middle Sister cranks until cranky.
“It’s too hard,’ says she,
yielding to me,
Big Sister of three.
With Dad’s final thrusts,
All declare,
“It’s done.”
Soupy ice slurps out
as bucket is tipped.
Released handle and cover reveal
pink
treasure.
Spoons in hand,
Mom scrapes buried.blades.
Then she carries our creation
to bowls awaiting.
We scurry to our places,
grins on our faces.
Our tongues remember
past
pink
pleasure.