By Theia Taylor
When my brother and I were younger, we would go up to a small town called Bancroft to visit our grandparents. The same house my mom spent most of her teenage years in, they owned a property on the outskirts of town— acres of green grass, wooden swings hanging from the trees, colourful flowers blooming.
After a day of playing out in the yard or spending time at the creek down the road, after a filling meal made by my grandmother, the kitchen still smelling faintly of spices, it would finally be time for our every-visit tradition: ice cream sundaes at the bar.
My grandparents had a bar in their kitchen that my brother and I loved. It was so high up that we needed to be lifted up and placed on the two wooden stools. We would sit there, all high and mighty, while watching our grandmother prepare our sundaes, still wearing her pink apron from making dinner and her grey hair tied up in a small ponytail.
It was always Kawartha Dairy ice cream in their freezer— on the outskirts of Bancroft was a massive Kawartha shop where you could buy ice cream as it was being made. My brother loved Raspberry Thunder (we’d sing “thunder, feel the thunder, lightning, then the thunder”), while I was always more of a vanilla girl myself, the basic but sweet flavour leaving room for every topping on the sundaes.
Then came the toppings: a chorus of “do you both want chocolate?”, “both kinds of sprinkles?”, “peanut butter chocolate chips? or any chocolate chips at all?”. After they were done being topped and ready, they’d be placed in front of us. Excited and eager, we’d eat them until the very last drop, licking the bowl clean.
On our very last visit before our grandparents sold the house, we had sundaes at the bar again, even though the tradition had become much more occasional as we got older. Although it wasn’t nearly as magical, it was still incredibly special, closing out our three-night trips to Bancroft. When I was helping them pack for the move, I was in charge of packing the spice cabinet’s contents into boxes, which was where all the toppings were stored.
It’s melancholic, but the memories of these ice cream sundaes will always remind me of my summers spent in Bancroft, and I hope they can remind you of childhood as well. They are best served after a long day outside in the sun, and as the title suggests, at a bar or island in your kitchen.
When my brother and I were younger, we would go up to a small town called Bancroft to visit our grandparents. The same house my mom spent most of her teenage years in, they owned a property on the outskirts of town— acres of green grass, wooden swings hanging from the trees, colourful flowers blooming.
After a day of playing out in the yard or spending time at the creek down the road, after a filling meal made by my grandmother, the kitchen still smelling faintly of spices, it would finally be time for our every-visit tradition: ice cream sundaes at the bar.
My grandparents had a bar in their kitchen that my brother and I loved. It was so high up that we needed to be lifted up and placed on the two wooden stools. We would sit there, all high and mighty, while watching our grandmother prepare our sundaes, still wearing her pink apron from making dinner and her grey hair tied up in a small ponytail.
It was always Kawartha Dairy ice cream in their freezer— on the outskirts of Bancroft was a massive Kawartha shop where you could buy ice cream as it was being made. My brother loved Raspberry Thunder (we’d sing “thunder, feel the thunder, lightning, then the thunder”), while I was always more of a vanilla girl myself, the basic but sweet flavour leaving room for every topping on the sundaes.
Then came the toppings: a chorus of “do you both want chocolate?”, “both kinds of sprinkles?”, “peanut butter chocolate chips? or any chocolate chips at all?”. After they were done being topped and ready, they’d be placed in front of us. Excited and eager, we’d eat them until the very last drop, licking the bowl clean.
On our very last visit before our grandparents sold the house, we had sundaes at the bar again, even though the tradition had become much more occasional as we got older. Although it wasn’t nearly as magical, it was still incredibly special, closing out our three-night trips to Bancroft. When I was helping them pack for the move, I was in charge of packing the spice cabinet’s contents into boxes, which was where all the toppings were stored.
It’s melancholic, but the memories of these ice cream sundaes will always remind me of my summers spent in Bancroft, and I hope they can remind you of childhood as well. They are best served after a long day outside in the sun, and as the title suggests, at a bar or island in your kitchen.