When I was born, I lived with my parents in a white house. The problem was that it was too far away from my dad’s farm. So we moved into a trailer nearby.

I lived in that trailer until I was 11, then we moved into our present house up the road. I miss the trailer. It was warm, snug and cozy.

I grew up somewhat poor. My dad was a farmer and my mom didn’t go back to work until I started school. But Mom was ingenious at saving and scraping by.

So there were things I went without. Like a Cabbage Patch Kid. Remember that craze? People mobbed the stores to buy them. But they were expensive. Mom had an imitation one made for me. When I proudly took it to school, I was immediately humiliated by the other kids.

Though when we did have more money later on, I went through my Jem doll phase. Yeah, I played with Barbies. But Barbie was so boring and bland compared to Jem. Jem had pink hair! She fronted a rock band! There was an enemy band called The Misfits. The lead singer of that band had GREEN hair.

My matchbox-sized bedroom was a Jem shrine. Her dressing room was on my bureau. The stage was a school desk in the closet. The car went anywhere it wanted to, with Jem’s boyfriend on the passenger side, of course. A friend came over and wanted to play with Jem, posed just so with the band on the stage. I was immediately irate and told her not to touch.

Later on, my parents gave me their bedroom and I strung up pink netting, clipping on those feathers you bought at the fair in wild colors. A big electric pink Jem banner was displayed prominently in the montage.

I was also a tomboy. I liked to play in the woods and run around fiercely on my own. I didn’t like dresses and was most comfortable in t-shirts and shorts. And I liked to flip the brim on my trucker hat.

People say things about people like me. Trailer trash folk. Only I wasn’t. I was a person who happened to live in a trailer. I have manners. I’m a good person. So to be lumped into a category because of where I lived just isn’t right. Much like any stereotype of any kind of person.

I believe growing up with not much at all is not a bad thing. I didn’t buy books. I went to the library, a candy store of every type of readable. I shopped at the Salvation Army, and made up my style from there. I used my own imagination to play with my few toys. I created miniature castles out of tree stumps, forts out of petrified logs, and telephones out of tin cans. Children nowadays are given anything they want, and they become stifled with stimulants. Take them away, and they have to use their own resources.

And the food was simple but enjoyed. My mom’s cooking. Chicken and rice was a favorite. Somehow there was a period when I only ate the fat of meat. Weird. And root beer floats…the definitive drink of my little girl days.

In the spirit of summer and childhood, I made a popsicle. You can do ANYTHING with popsicle molds. Peach yogurt popsicles. Coffee popsicles. Margarita popsicles. Pour and freeze, that’s it! Simple. I love simple.

I made a root beer float popsicle and tried several ways. I did it with vanilla ice cream, which came out great. Next I made whipped cream with vanilla bean.

It was my first time using vanilla bean. You scrape out the seeds and they get embedded under your fingernails. Awesome.

If you want authentic vanilla taste, always use vanilla bean. Always always. Though it did cost me seven dollars for two beans. In that case, only special occasions warrant it.

I filled the molds with cream and root beer. I splurged on root beer too. It’s called Virgil’s and it’s MICROBREWED. Smooth and mild.

But. When I unmolded and tasted, bluah. Yuck. Bland. Whipped cream is always accent and fluff, never the taste foundation of anything by itself.

Though it does look pretty, doesn’t it?

So I went on to something more substantial. Pudding. I approached this with a little trepidation. If you recall, I had a chocolate creme pie which went awry because it didn’t thicken. But I learned to whisk it fast this time, not lazily. Mother peanut-gallery wisdom, of course. That saves me frequently, though I grit my teeth to admit it.

Then I poured, molded and froze.

Yum. Sometimes you have to be a kid again.