vegan ice cream recipe

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june 29th

The 29^th of June has become “one of those days” for me. The sadness often settles in the night before and will linger with me throughout the whole of the 29^th. Even though I know the heartache is likely coming, there seems to be little I can do to prevent the incoming wave of loss. And so today, on what previously had been a day of celebration, I move through the day with a heavy heart tinged by just the faintest wisp of hope. Because as many times as hope has failed me, I can't seem to stop coming back for more.  

Today is the birthday of a cherished family member who, while not dead, is desperately lost to us all. I’ve often felt that death would be easier to handle, if I'm being honest. Easier to process. At least then I’d know the ending to our story and could move on. This limbo state, however, effectively stalls healing and prevents closure. Most days, I tuck the whole mess safely away, muted behind a wall—never forgetting, but never fully allowing, either. But when June 29^th rolls around as it inevitably does, those walls begin to crack and seep. Grief trickles in and pools like poison at my feet. Regrets nibble. Memories tease. Guilt torments. Laughter echoes. And above it all? Mental illness reigns.

still waiting on a miracle

I generally struggle to get through this day (and Thanksgiving… and Christmas) knowing how unbearably lonely her world is now, devoid of the family she so carefully cultivated and nurtured. The full and vibrant world that she used to live in still exists—my siblings and all of our many children reside there—but there’s no way to make her see that. There’s no amount of reason or logic that can break through the creeping madness, and all I’m left holding onto at the end of the day is the possibility of a miracle. Miracles exist, I know that; I just witnessed two of them last week. And every one that appears before me only fuels that damn flicker of hope that steadfastly refuses to die.

I often think of all the things she’s missed over the past nine years. The death of her mom and her brother. The traumatic and shocking death of her former mother-in-law. The ongoing mental decline of her dad. There have been divorces, medical emergencies, and most recently my brother and his family lost all of their belongings and a family pet to a devastating house fire. When I think of those hard pills that life forces us to swallow, I wonder if perhaps she’s lucky in a twisted kind of way. Spared the hardships and realities of life, she can pretend they don’t exist. In her world, only her pain is justified. Only her pain hurts. Only her pain is real. But then there are the happy moments. The marriage of her first granddaughter. The birth of her first great grand-baby. The successes and triumphs, recoveries and milestones. Life is like that—a mixed bag. Any by missing the sad and the scary parts, she’s also missed the happy parts that actually make life worth living.

so many herb gardens

I’m so much like her, in so many ways. She’s the only one who happily cooked for me. She was a vegetarian long before I became a vegan, and we constantly shared recipes during our regular walks. If you ask my girls what their most vivid memory is of her is as children, they'll tell you that Gramma is the scent of baking muffins. Her house always smelled like a health food store—a valid aspiration, if there ever was one. I've been told the same about my home, and I consider it the highest of compliments.

She introduced me to the power of essential oils and ignited a fire that led me all the way to becoming a Level 3 Holistic Aromatherapist. She stood by me in my panic years, holding me on the kitchen floor through one of my rock-bottom breakdowns. She bred in all of her children a wildly creative spark, and each of us is forever pursuing the next “big” thing that has piqued our interest.

She taught me how to make my own lotion and bake my own bread. She bought me my first sewing machine. She built teepees and sweat-tents. She crafted wreaths from her backyard blooms and wove baskets on the living room floor. She built herb garden upon herb garden upon herb garden. I own the first of many quilts that she ever made, and now sleep every night with the last one she ever gifted me. She’s an indelible part of me, no matter how far she drifts. No matter how bitter she becomes.

it never ends well

Years can pass in silence, but on occasion she’ll show up at my front door. I’m not stupid and I know it probably won’t end well, but I always invite her in anyway. I hug her tightly as soon as she steps in the door, knowing it might be the last time I ever do so. I smell her earthy smell and soak up her familiar voice. Her hands shake and she vibrates with overwhelming energy that makes my head spin, but my heart is happy to see her just the same. The visits always end badly, spiraling as they do into a bottomless pit of wrath and hate. Incomprehensible behavior from a soul who was so formally kind, warm, and compassionate. Incomprehensible words from a soul who probably still smells like muffins.

I gently pepper her with question after question, desperately probing so that I might get a sense of a life that I can no longer be a part of. What are her days like? What does she fill them with? Is she cooking? Is she creating? Does she ever remember us with fondness? And perhaps most importantly: is she ever happy when she's alone? Or does she only use the endless hours of silence to further fuel her self-pity and rage?

I ask as quickly as I can, knowing the conversation will inevitably change course. She asks nothing about the family, about my girls, about me. My early attempts at "normalcy" will crumble all too quickly and it's a race against the clock, but I also know that as long as I ask the questions, I direct the conversation. As soon as she's comfortable and believes she can "trust" me, however, the polite pleasantries will be replaced with a darkness so dark that I will eventually be forced to ask her to leave.

It's at this point that she will redirect her wrath and place it squarely on me, screaming her way out the door in a petite whirlwind of fury. Her farewells to me are always the same: You're doomed to hell. You're a horrible person. Your children hate you. You're a manipulative, controlling, evil human. God will avenge me and has already promised me a new family who will love me properly and as I deserve. I'm able to remain calm through the tirade even as my heart breaks and the hope deflates, telling her I love her even as I corral her out the door. I remind myself that this isn’t who she is. This isn’t who she wants to be. But even so, this might be all I ever get. My girls have forbidden me from allowing her back in the next time she knocks, but I know that I’ll let her in just the same. Damn hope. It just never gives up.

we'll be waiting

Cleaning always helps me to recenter, so I tidied up my desk this morning, preparing for the day. Going through my drawers, I unexpectedly came across a letter she’d sent me back in 2020. It clearly illustrates her unwell state of mind, but it’s also written in her hand. The soft, rounded edges of her penmanship so familiar, yet writing words so unfamiliar. Words that can’t be hers. Strangely, I cherished it in spite of the not-nice message because it's a tangible piece of her. She’s in there somewhere still, I’m fully convinced of it. But will she ever find her way back out? All I know is this: if she does, we’ll be waiting.

I haven’t had much time to blog as of late, but today the emotions wanted expressing. This isn't my most polished of posts and I haven't done my normal copious amount of editing, but I'm sharing it just the same. And while I’m here, I can think of no better way to honor all that she’s given me—and I remember it well and with gratitude—than by sharing a recipe. She would love this incredibly creamy vegan ice cream recipe, and I mean truly love it. I imagine her making it regularly—and then eating the entire batch by herself. In one sitting. So here’s to you Mom. Happy Birthday ♥

vegan ice cream recipe

Ingredients

• 1 cup cashews (soaked, at least 2 hours)

• 8 Medjool dates (pitted & soaked)

• 1⅓ cups water

• 3 tablespoons unsweetened shredded coconut

• 1½ teaspoons vanilla extract

• 2 cups frozen strawberries (omit for plain vanilla ice cream)

Supplies

• Vitamix (or other high performance blender)

• ice cube trays

Directions

1. Soak the cashews in water for at least 2 hours, preferably overnight. You'll want them nice and soft for a super creamy consistency. Drain and rinse before adding to the Vitamix.

2. Add the strawberries to a bowl and allow to come to room temperature, making sure to save all of the strawberry juices. If you'd like some whole strawberry pieces in your ice cream, set some aside before adding the rest to the Vitamix along with the juices.

3. Add the rest of the ingredients to the Vitamix and blend everything on the smoothie setting. It should be a nice, creamy consistency.

4. Pour the mixture into ice cube trays and freeze for about 5 hours. If freezing for longer, allow the cubes to soften some before adding to Vitamix for the second round.

5. Pop the ice cream cubes from the tray and slice each cube into several pieces. (After 5 hours, I can do this easily.) You may find it easier to do the second blending in two separate rounds, but I can usually manage them in one as long as they're soft enough.

6. Using the tamper on a medium speed, gently press and mix the sliced cubes until completely smooth and creamy.

7. Stir in the strawberry pieces if you reserved any and enjoy! (I dare you not to each the whole batch ;)

recipe notes

I've only made this ice cream using the Vitamix, but I imagine that with enough persistence a normal blender would work just as well!

Omit the strawberries and this makes for a delicious vanilla ice cream! I'll add more variations (mint chip, chocolate, cookie dough...) as soon as I get the chance!

I never have plant-based milk on hand, but if you do, replace the water with it and omit the shredded coconut. (The Vitamix makes these two ingredients into a whole-food milk for me!

I prefer frozen strawberries to fresh only because I want the juice for a richly pink finished product! Fresh strawberries will also work just fine :)

And that's all for today, my friends. Thanks so much for reading, and I'll see you next time ♥

Much love,

Melinda