Ok, let’s address the elephant in the room first. My pizza purists, I know this isn’t a traditional pizza. Duh. This isn't Neapolitan, there's no San Marzano tomato sauce involved, and your Nonna would probably side-eye me hard. But two very specific things happen in the summer:

1. Fruit takes over my world.

2. I make some questionable—but delicious—decisions.

Let’s talk about #1 first. Fruit, man. It’s like I black out in the produce aisle. I go in for “just a few things,” and leave with a 40-lb crate of peaches, six pints of berries, and a vague sense of shame. I tell myself, “We’ll eat it all!” forgetting the hard truth of my household: I’m the only one who actually eats fruit.

Yes, you read that right. Despite the fact that there are four adult-sized humans under this roof, I live in a home where 75% of the population has serious food aversions. ARFID is real, people, and fruit doesn't make the cut for the other three. I can sneak in mixed berry smoothies,  no dice on pies (because Chocolate Pie is the only kind Ivy believes in",  and there is precisely zero fruit in a fruit snack. So it’s just me, valiantly charging through a produce aisle’s worth of peaches before they go fuzzy in a bad way.

Cue the culinary lightbulb moment.

What if… I put the peaches on a pizza?

Now I know what you're thinking. “You monster.” “You can’t just throw stone fruit on dough and call it dinner.” But friends, I can and I did. And it was glorious.

Let me introduce you to Summer Peach Pizza with Goat Cheese.

It’s sweet. It’s tangy. It’s got homemade lemon pesto, because I’m a basil-growing goddess this year (thank you, backyard container gardening). And if I’m feeling extra—which let’s be honest, I usually am—I’ll drizzle balsamic glaze on top and eat it like the confident summer weirdo I was born to be.

This might not be the pizza you’re used to, but it might just be the pizza you fall in love with. Especially if you’re also drowning in peaches and don’t want to bake yet another cobbler.

So without further ado, here’s how to make my Not-Quite-a-Pizza Pizza:

🍑 Summer Peach Pizza with Goat Cheese

(aka “I Regret Nothing” Pizza)

Serves: 2-3 people, or one fruit-loving human avoiding eye contact with the ARFID crew
Prep Time: 15 minutes
Cook Time: 10-12 minutes
Emotional Preparation: 2 deep breaths and a quick “I know what I’m doing” affirmation

Ingredients:

For the crust (choose your own adventure):

• 1 ball of pizza dough (store-bought or homemade, no judgment here)

• OR a pre-baked flatbread or naan if it’s too hot to deal with dough

For the lemon pesto (aka my summer sauce MVP):

• 2 cups fresh basil leaves

• 1/3 cup toasted almonds (or pine nuts, if you're fancy)

• 2 cloves garlic

• Juice and zest of 1 lemon

• 1/2 cup olive oil

• Salt and pepper to taste

• Optional: a couple tablespoons of grated Parmesan, if dairy isn’t your enemy

Pizza toppings:

• 2–3 ripe peaches, thinly sliced

• 4 oz goat cheese, crumbled

• Balsamic glaze (store-bought or homemade if you’re extra ambitious)

• Optional: a handful of arugula for a peppery little kick

🧑‍🍳 Instructions:

Step 1: Make the pesto
Throw all the pesto ingredients into a food processor and blend until smooth and slightly thick. Taste it and adjust salt/lemon/garlic based on your mood. This stuff is magic and you’ll want to put it on everything, including grilled cheese, sandwiches, pasta, your finger…

Step 2: Preheat that oven
Crank your oven to 450°F (or as hot as it goes without setting off your smoke alarm). If you’ve got a pizza stone or steel (which you should totally buy because they're amazing!), great. If not, a regular baking sheet will do.

Step 3: Roll out the dough
Stretch or roll out your dough to about 10–12 inches across. Place it on a piece of parchment if you’re transferring it onto a hot stone, or just put it directly on a baking sheet. If you’re using flatbread or naan, congratulations, you get to skip this part.

Step 4: Assemble the magic
Spread a generous spoonful of lemon pesto over the dough. Don’t be shy—it’s the star here. Lay your peach slices on top like you’re designing a fruity tile backsplash. Scatter crumbles of goat cheese all over.

Step 5: Bake
Pop the pizza in the oven for 10–12 minutes or until the crust is golden, the goat cheese is soft and lightly browned, and the peaches look like they’ve had a moment of spiritual awakening.

Step 6: Final flourish
Drizzle with balsamic glaze and, if you’re feeling verdant, toss some arugula on top. Stand back and admire your summer masterpiece.

🍕 Serving Suggestions:

• Serve warm, ideally with a crisp glass of something cold and mildly alcoholic.

• Eat on your porch while aggressively ignoring people who say “That’s not pizza.”

• Post on social media with the caption: “I contain multitudes.”

💬 Final Thoughts From a Peach-Crazed Pizza Rebel

Look, I’m not saying you need to forsake your classic marinara and mozzarella forever. I’m just saying maybe—just maybe—it’s time to let your summer freak flag fly a little.

This pizza is light, bright, and everything I want in July. It solves the "I bought too much fruit" problem, gives your basil a job, and lets you eat something that looks like it belongs on a menu titled “Farm-to-Table Fusion Bistro Pop-Up Night.”

So go forth, embrace the weird, and let peaches on pizza be the hill you’re proud to die on.

And for my ARFID crew—don’t worry, I 'll always make you something you love. No fruit involved. I love you, weirdos!!!

So I'm over the moon with how well my basil is growing in the garden. I mean, I can grow something that isn’t a weed! Yay me!!! Do you know how rare that is? I’ve killed succulents. Succulents. The plants that are basically nature’s version of a tamagotchi set to “easy mode.” But this basil? It is thriving. Like, peak influencer energy. Like, if it had a TikTok account, it’d be going viral for skincare routines and chill aesthetic vibes.

Of course, now that my basil is basically a lush little forest, I’m on the hunt for every possible basil recipe known to humankind. I’ve been putting it on everything. I’ve made a lot of pizza.  I briefly considered using it as a garnish on my cereal just because it was there and I could. Desperate times.

But here’s the thing—I’ve always had this thing about pesto. You know pesto. It’s that bright green, garlicky sauce that makes people say things like “Mmmm” and “Did you toast the pine nuts?” And I, well...I just never really did pesto. It felt fussy. It felt like the kind of thing you need a tiny food processor and a farmer’s market subscription to enjoy properly. Also: pine nuts are freaking expensive. Like, are they made of unicorn tears and trust funds? Because that price tag is no joke.

Also, the garlic. Don’t get me wrong—I love garlic. But I like it in quantities that suggest flavor, not in vampire-repellent doses. I don’t want to sweat out garlic because I still love my husband even after 30 years, you know?

Then I found her. Half Baked Harvest’s lemon pesto recipe. I love Tiegan's stuff and I read her cookbooks like real books. Seriously, the recipes and pictures are my bedtime stories. And right away I noticed:  pine nuts - optional. I could use good ol’ almonds, which I already had hanging out in my pantry, probably trying to figure out if they were ever going to fulfill their smoothie destiny. And LEMON! Bright, citrusy, sunshine-in-a-sauce lemon! I was in.

So let me just say: if you’ve never been into pesto, you need to try this pesto. It’s like the pesto for pesto skeptics. The gateway pesto. It’s fresh, zingy, garlicky-but-not-aggressive, and shockingly easy. I made it once, and now I make it every other day like I’m running a side hustle out of my kitchen. I’m about three batches away from selling jars of it at the farmer’s market with a handwritten chalkboard sign that says “Made With Love (and Panic Gardening).”

And don’t worry, I’ve got a killer summer pizza recipe coming soon using this very pesto. So go ahead and make it now—you’re gonna want it in the fridge, trust me.

🍋 Lemon Pesto with Almonds (aka “I Can’t Believe I Made This and It’s Amazing” Sauce)

Ingredients:

• 2 cups fresh basil leaves, tightly packed (from your flourishing garden or a store, no shame)

• 1/2 cup roasted almonds (unsalted is best, but hey, live your life)

• 1/2 cup freshly grated parmesan cheese

• Zest of 1 lemon

• Juice of 1 lemon

• 1 large clove garlic (or half if you're garlic shy like me)

• 1/2 cup olive oil (plus a little more if you want a looser consistency)

• Salt and pepper to taste

Optional but delightful:

• A little pinch of red pepper flakes for a kick

• A teaspoon of honey if you like a slightly sweeter vibe

🛠️ Instructions:

1. Toast those almonds! (Optional but worth it.) If your almonds aren’t already roasted, toss them in a dry skillet over medium heat for a few minutes until they smell nutty and fabulous. Don’t walk away. They will burn. They’re sneaky like that.

2. Food processor time. In a food processor (or a high-powered blender if you like living on the edge), combine the basil, almonds, parmesan, lemon zest and juice, and garlic. Blitz until it looks like a coarse green mulch. The good kind.

3. Drizzle, baby. With the processor running, slowly drizzle in the olive oil until the pesto reaches your desired consistency. If it’s looking too thick, add more oil. If it’s too thin, you probably got excited. Happens to the best of us.

4. Season like a boss. Add salt and pepper to taste, and if you’re using red pepper flakes or honey, now’s the time to throw them in and give it one last whirl.

5. Taste and swoon. You just made pesto. LEMON pesto. It’s fresh. It’s punchy. It tastes like summer vacation in Italy, even if you’re still wearing pajama pants at 3 p.m.

🧊 Storage Tips:

• Store in a sealed jar or container in the fridge for up to a week.

• You can also freeze it in ice cube trays for little flavor bombs anytime you need a boost.

• It also makes a great gift for friends who will pretend they’re not jealous of your garden but definitely are.

🍕 Coming Soon: The Pizza to End All Pizzas

I’ve got a summer pizza recipe on deck that will blow your flip-flops off. (Spoiler: there’s fruit involved. I KNOW.) But before we go there, make this lemon almond pesto and get familiar. Slather it on toast, stir it into pasta, dip veggies in it, eat it by the spoonful standing at the fridge like a confused raccoon—I don’t judge.

Honestly, this pesto might be the best thing to come out of my garden since that one time I accidentally grew a tomato. My basil is still going gangbusters, so expect more green recipes soon. Until then, go forth and pesto! You can make something that isn’t a weed! 🎉🌿

Here we are, another Friday, and yes, I’ve got a frozen treat for you. Frosty Fridays are officially my thing now! I'm committed. You're committed. We’re all in this frosty little club together. I really hope they’re your thing too—because at this point I have absolutely no plans to stop. It’s summer! That magical sliver of the year when sunscreen is your perfume and popsicles count as hydration. Unless you live closer to the equator than I do (and if you do, can I come visit?), we’ve only got so many weeks of warm-weather whimsy, so we’ve got to make the most of them.

And what better way to do that than by sandwiching an obscene amount of ice cream between two perfectly chewy chocolate chip cookies?

I mean... come on.

This recipe is one of those dangerously easy ones. You bake cookies. You make a no-churn vanilla ice cream that tastes like you hand-churned it while singing to cows on an alpine hillside. You smash them together in a glorious sandwich that makes your kids look at you like you're a domestic goddess who definitely knows what she's doing and absolutely has never burned frozen pizza before (ahem... not that I have, and if I DID, it was a long time ago...).

Let me walk you through it.

Chocolate Chip Cookie Ice Cream Sandwiches

(makes about 6–8 monstrous, joy-packed sandwiches)

Step 1: The Cookies

These are your classic, chewy-inside, golden-edges, can’t-eat-just-one chocolate chip cookies. Not trying to reinvent the wheel here—we’re going for nostalgic, crumbly perfection.

Ingredients:

• 1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter, softened (but not melted! We’re not making soup)

• 1 cup brown sugar, packed

• 1/2 cup granulated sugar

• 2 large eggs

• 2 tsp vanilla extract

• 2 1/4 cups all-purpose flour

• 1 tsp baking soda

• 1/2 tsp salt

• 2 cups semi-sweet chocolate chips (or whatever your soul needs)

Instructions:

1. Preheat your oven to 350°F and line two baking sheets with parchment. Or don’t, and live dangerously. (No judgment, just more dishes.)

2. Cream the butter and sugars together until light and fluffy. This is where the magic starts. Or the mess, depending on your mixer.

3. Beat in the eggs and vanilla until combined.

4. In a separate bowl, whisk together flour, baking soda, and salt. Then slowly mix it into the wet stuff.

5. Fold in the chocolate chips like you’re tucking them in for a cozy nap.

6. Scoop heaping tablespoonfuls (or go big, you rebel) and space them out on your baking sheets.

7. Bake for 10–12 minutes until golden around the edges. Don’t overbake unless you enjoy crunchy disappointment.

8. Cool completely. Seriously. Ice cream + warm cookie = puddle of regrets.

Step 2: The No-Churn Vanilla Ice Cream

Look, I love ice cream. But I do not love fiddling with rock salt or ice cream maker parts that haven’t been seen since last July. This no-churn version is a gift from the lazy dessert gods, and we thank them.

Ingredients:

• 2 cups heavy cream

• 1 (14 oz) can sweetened condensed milk

• 2 tsp vanilla extract

• A pinch of salt (yes, salt. It’s the secret handshake of the dessert world.)

Instructions:

1. In a large bowl, whip the heavy cream until stiff peaks form. You want it fluffy but not butter.

2. In another bowl (I know, sorry), mix the sweetened condensed milk, vanilla, and salt.

3. Fold the whipped cream gently into the condensed milk mixture. Pretend you’re blending clouds.

4. Pour into a freezer-safe dish or loaf pan, smooth the top, and freeze for at least 6 hours or overnight. I know, the waiting is the hardest part. Tom Petty was right.

Step 3: The Assembly

This is where you go full goddess mode. Your kitchen may be a disaster. You might be wearing mismatched socks. But when you present a tray of homemade chocolate chip cookie ice cream sandwiches to your family? You are the moment.

Assembly Tips:

1. Match up cookies of similar size because symmetry matters in dessert architecture.

2. Let the ice cream soften just a little (not too much—remember the puddle).

3. Scoop a generous amount—like, don’t even think about moderation—onto the bottom of one cookie. Top with its twin and smoosh gently.

4. Optional but encouraged: roll the sides in mini chocolate chips, sprinkles, or crushed nuts. Live your best sandwich life.

5. Wrap individually in parchment or plastic wrap and pop them back in the freezer for 20–30 minutes so they hold their shape.

6. Then serve. And prepare to be worshipped.

A Few Final Thoughts from the Frosty Trenches

Look, I am no Ina Garten. I am not orchestrating elegant garden parties with fresh lavender centerpieces and coordinating napkins. My version of elegance is remembering to preheat the oven before putting the cookies in. And sometimes I forget that anyway. But I do know how to make a ridiculously good ice cream sandwich. And so do you now.

Frosty Fridays are my favorite new tradition because:

• It gives me an excuse to make (and eat) dessert weekly.

• My kiddos are over the moon happy and that makes ME happy.

• It makes summer feel like summer, even on the weird days when it rains sideways or the hail starts pummeling your sweet baby plants that you just took outside.

So go forth. Make cookies. Whip cream. Build sandwiches that make your kids cheer and your summer days slow down just a tad. You’ve earned this moment. Embrace the sticky fingers and melty joy.

See you next Friday, frosty fam. I’ll have something cold, sweet, and completely unnecessary—but absolutely worth it.

XO,
Your Dessert-Enthusiast-In-Chief 🍦🍪💪

P.S. If you sneak one of these sandwiches for breakfast tomorrow, I will not tell a soul. That’s between you and your inner goddess.

I know, I know. It’s only Wednesday and I’m already plotting what I want to make for breakfast this weekend. But are we really surprised? You know I think about food all the time. Like, all the time. I'm that person who finishes one meal and immediately starts mentally prepping the next. It's not a problem, it’s a passion. (Okay fine, it might be both.)

Weekends are my time to shine. It’s when I can actually enjoy cooking without the pressure of a time crunch, an evil commute at o-dark thirty, meeting after meeting going over everything you said in the LAST meeting.  So when Saturday morning rolls around and I don’t have to make breakfast while half-asleep and clutching a coffee like a life preserver, you better believe I’m going big.

But here's the thing: most French Toast Bakes out there are made to feed a crowd. Like…a “we just invited the entire baseball team and maybe some of their cousins” kind of crowd. And that’s great if you’re hosting brunch for your extended family and every neighbor on your block. But I live with exactly four people. And one of those four is still highly suspicious of any dish that includes both eggs and cinnamon. So I need something a little more Goldilocks: not too big, not too small, just right.

Enter: Small Batch French Toast Bake.

You make this beauty in a loaf pan. A loaf pan! That humble little bread-baking workhorse now gets to shine on center stage. And unlike most French toast casseroles that want you to cube the bread into a million soggy little sponges, this one keeps the bread in nice, thick slices—like the traditional stuff, just stacked and snuggled into your pan like they’re spooning for warmth. Cozy. Simple. Perfect.

Let’s talk method for a sec.

You make a cinnamon-laced custard (don’t worry, we’re not reinventing the wheel here—milk, eggs, vanilla, sugar, done). You soak those glorious one-inch slices of bread in it until they’re soft and saturated and about two seconds away from falling apart in the best way. Then you stack them back into your pan like a soft, cinnamon-scented loaf of happiness. Pour any extra custard over the top, add a generous sprinkle of brown sugar and sliced almonds (we’re fancy now), and bake it until the top is golden and crisp and the insides are creamy and dreamy.

And don’t skip the powdered sugar. Don’t even think about skipping the syrup. These are not optional. They are mandatory accessories. Like wearing earrings with a fancy dress or bringing a towel to the beach. Without them, you’re just not doing it right.

Anyway, let’s get into the recipe so you can get this on your own weekend menu. Or your Thursday morning menu. Or maybe you’re living your best life and having breakfast for dinner. Who am I to judge?

🥖 Small Batch French Toast Bake

Serves 2-4, depending on how much you like to share.

Ingredients:

• ½ loaf of day-old brioche or challah (about 6–7 slices, 1-inch thick)

• 3 large eggs

• ¾ cup whole milk (or half and half if you’re feeling wild)

• 2 tablespoons granulated sugar

• 1 teaspoon vanilla extract

• 1 teaspoon ground cinnamon

• Pinch of salt

• 2 tablespoons brown sugar (for topping)

• 2 tablespoons sliced almonds (optional but delightful)

• Butter or cooking spray, for greasing

• Powdered sugar and maple syrup, for serving

Instructions:

1. Prep the Pan & Bread
   Grease a loaf pan (standard 9x5-ish) with butter or nonstick spray. Slice your bread into 1-inch thick slices. If it’s not day-old and a little dry, just leave the slices out for 15 minutes while you make the custard and pretend you're planning ahead.

2. Make the Custard
   In a medium bowl, whisk together eggs, milk, granulated sugar, vanilla, cinnamon, and a pinch of salt until smooth and dreamy.

3. Soak the Bread
   Dip each slice of bread into the custard mixture, giving it a little soak on both sides until it’s nice and saturated (but not disintegrating, we’re not making pudding here). As each slice is soaked, stack it into the prepared loaf pan like a weird, squishy card deck.

4. Add Extra Love
   Pour any remaining custard over the top, making sure it seeps into all the little crevices. Sprinkle with brown sugar and almonds like you're adding fairy dust and good vibes.

5. Bake
   Preheat your oven to 350°F (because I probably should’ve told you that earlier…my bad). Bake uncovered for 30–35 minutes, or until the top is golden and the custard is set. It will puff up slightly and make your house smell like a cinnamon wonderland.

6. Serve It Up
   Let it cool for 5–10 minutes if you can stand it. Dust with powdered sugar and drizzle with maple syrup like you’re auditioning for a Food Network special. Serve warm and feel extremely smug about your life choices.

A Few Notes from My Kitchen:

• If you’re feeling extra, toss in some berries between the slices before baking. Or swap the almonds for chopped pecans. Or, you know what? Don’t add anything at all and just live your best cinnamon toast life.

• You can assemble this the night before and keep it covered in the fridge. Just pop it in the oven the next morning while you make coffee and pretend you're one of those people who has their life together.

• Leftovers (if any) reheat like a dream in the oven or air fryer. Just don’t microwave it unless you like sadness.

So there you have it. Weekend French Toast dreams, scaled down to fit your actual life. No army required. Just a loaf pan, a little bit of time, and a serious love of syrup.

Now go ahead—plan that weekend breakfast. You’ve earned it.

A love letter to indecision (and summer fruit)

Listen, I love summer desserts. I love the fruity ones, the creamy ones, the ones that involve fire and melted marshmallows and maybe a little danger. But this week? This week I hit a wall. A dessert wall. I couldn’t for the life of me decide what to make.

Do I want the rustic charm of a strawberry cornmeal skillet cake?
Or do I want the old-fashioned joy of strawberry shortcake?
Or do I just want to stand over the sink eating strawberries with my hands like a gremlin?

These are the deep philosophical questions of summer. Meanwhile, the strawberries I bought (with all the optimistic confidence of someone who had a plan—spoiler: I did not) were starting to give me the look. You know the one. Like, “Hey lady, figure it out. We’re delicious and ready. DO something before we get moldy and you feel guilty.”

So, in true indecisive form, I just… did it all.

Behold: Strawberry Cornmeal Skillet Cake with Muddled Strawberries and Whipped Cream.
Is it a skillet cake? Yes.
Is it strawberry shortcake-adjacent? Also yes.
Is it a pile of summery joy that tastes like you knew what you were doing the whole time?
Surprisingly, yes.

Why Cornmeal?

Cornmeal adds this gorgeous texture—just a little chew, a little crunch—that makes the cake feel more like something your southern grandma might whip up, if you had one. It keeps the cake from being too sweet, and pairs beautifully with the strawberries and cream.

Plus, it makes you feel fancy. “Oh this? It’s a cornmeal cake.” Say it out loud to someone while holding a coffee and you’ll see what I mean.

The Recipe: Strawberry Cornmeal Skillet Cake with Muddled Strawberries and Whipped Cream

Ingredients:

For the cake:

• 1 cup all-purpose flour

• ½ cup yellow cornmeal

• 1 ½ tsp baking powder

• ½ tsp salt

• ½ cup unsalted butter, melted and cooled slightly

• ⅔ cup granulated sugar

• 2 large eggs

• 1 tsp vanilla extract

• ½ cup buttermilk (or milk + 1 tsp lemon juice)

• 1 ½ cups chopped fresh strawberries (plus a few extra for topping)

For the muddled strawberries:

• 1 ½ cups fresh strawberries, hulled and chopped

• 2 Tbsp sugar

• 1 tsp lemon juice (optional, but adds a little brightness)

For the whipped cream:

• 1 cup heavy cream

• 2 Tbsp powdered sugar

• ½ tsp vanilla extract

Equipment:

• 10-inch oven-safe skillet (cast iron is ideal, but any oven-safe pan works)

• Your hands, your heart, and maybe a spatula.

Directions:

1. Preheat your oven to 350°F (175°C).
Take a deep breath and remind yourself you can make decisions, even if they involve cake and cream.

2. Make the batter.
In a medium bowl, whisk together the flour, cornmeal, baking powder, and salt. In a separate large bowl, whisk the melted butter and sugar until it looks like you knew what you were doing. Add eggs, vanilla, and buttermilk, and stir until smooth.

Now, slowly add the dry ingredients to the wet ones and stir until just combined. Fold in the chopped strawberries. Do not taste the batter unless you want to “accidentally” eat it all raw. (I warned you.)

3. Bake it.
Grease your skillet (a swipe of butter or spray will do) and pour in the batter. Smooth it out, whisper words of encouragement, and pop it into the oven. Bake for 30–35 minutes, or until the top is golden, the edges are lightly crispy, and a toothpick in the center comes out clean.

Let it cool in the pan for at least 10 minutes. Yes, I know. That’s the hardest part.

4. Muddle your strawberries.
While the cake is cooling, toss your chopped strawberries with sugar and lemon juice. Use a fork or a potato masher to gently mash them until they’re juicy and saucy but still have a few chunky bits. Or leave them sliced like I did, because they look so pretty on the cake.  Like a strawberry jam with commitment issues. Set aside.

5. Make the whipped cream.
Whip the heavy cream, powdered sugar, and vanilla together until soft peaks form. You can use a hand mixer, stand mixer, or if you’re feeling extremely virtuous (or want an arm workout), go old-school with a whisk.

6. Assemble and serve.
Slice your warm (or room temp) cake into wedges. Top each with a big ol’ spoonful of muddled strawberries and a generous dollop of whipped cream. Marvel at your own brilliance.

Final Thoughts from a Dessert Goblin

This dessert is like a greatest hits album of summer: juicy berries, buttery cake, and clouds of whipped cream. And if you, like me, sometimes stare into the void of your fridge trying to decide which direction to go in life (or dessert), let this be your reminder that mashing it all together is sometimes exactly the right move.

Also, if you happen to eat this straight from the skillet with just a spoon and no dignity? I see you. I am you. I support you.

Bonus: It also makes a stellar breakfast the next day. Not that I would know. Except I totally do.

So here’s to summer, strawberries, and never having to choose just one dessert.
Make the cake. Top it with everything. Bask in the glory of your creation.
And maybe get more strawberries next time—you’re going to want seconds.

Pin it, bake it, share it, or just commit it to memory under "Things That Fix My Mood Instantly."
You deserve delicious things. Especially the indecisive ones.

Ok, I’m noticing a trend. The last few Fridays, I’ve posted an ice cream recipe. Just a casual little scoop here, a frozen treat there... and now here we are, full-blown Frosty Friday mode. Do I regret it? Absolutely not. If you’re looking for guilt-free, low-cal, sugar-free ice cream alternatives, this is probably not your stop. But if you’re here for something that tastes like happiness got swirled into a pint and froze itself into creamy perfection? Welcome. You’re my people.

This week’s glorious installment: No Churn Blueberry Pie Ice Cream.

YUM.
YUM.
YUUUUUM!

You guys. It’s so good. Like, “you won’t believe I didn’t churn this in a vintage hand crank machine wearing a gingham apron while someone played the fiddle” good. You know what’s also great? It’s embarrassingly easy. Which is my kind of recipe. Honestly, if you can operate a can opener and not fall into your freezer headfirst, you can make this.

And before I get into the actual how-to (I promise I’ll get there, but first I need to emotionally prepare you for what’s about to happen), let me just say: if you’re thinking, “but I’ve never made ice cream before,”—great. Because this recipe will make you feel like a magician. Like Ina Garten’s laid-back cousin who only shows up at family gatherings with frozen desserts and big Gemini energy.

Here’s what we’re working with:

• A no churn vanilla base: Just sweetened condensed milk and whipped cream. That’s it. That’s the whole base. Ice cream science is WILD.

• Blueberry pie filling: I made mine homemade because I had some blueberries threatening to go full shrivel in my fridge. But if you’re more of a “crack the can and dump” type of chef? DO IT. No shame.

• Graham crackers: They’re the stand-in for the crust, and honestly? They understood the assignment. Crumbly, buttery, nostalgic bliss.

So let’s make some magic. But first—a quick warning: You will want to eat the whole thing in one sitting. I’m not saying you should. I’m just saying… I understand.

---

No Churn Blueberry Pie Ice Cream

Makes: One standard loaf pan’s worth (aka 6 reasonable servings or 2 emotionally frazzled servings)
Prep time: 15 minutes
Freeze time: 6 hours or overnight
Eating time: 1.3 seconds, give or take

Ingredients:

• 2 cups heavy whipping cream, cold

• 1 (14 oz) can sweetened condensed milk

• 1 tbsp vanilla extract (or more if you measure with your heart)

• 1 cup blueberry pie filling (homemade or store-bought—your secret is safe)

• 1 cup graham cracker pieces (broken into chunks, not pulverized—we’re not making dust)

---

Instructions:

1. Whip it, whip it good
   In a large bowl, whip your cold heavy cream until it forms stiff peaks. Use a hand mixer unless you enjoy burning triceps and crying softly into dairy.

2. Add the magic milk
   Gently fold in the sweetened condensed milk and vanilla extract. Be gentle, like you’re folding a baby blanket. If you whip it too hard, it’ll deflate faster than my motivation to clean the garage.

3. Layer like a boss
   Pour half the ice cream base into a loaf pan (or any freezer-safe container). Dollop in half of your blueberry pie filling, then swirl it around with a knife or skewer like you're trying to impress Paul Hollywood. Sprinkle in half your graham cracker pieces. Repeat the layers.

4. Top it off
   Give it one more swirl on top if you’re feeling fancy. Add a few extra cracker crumbles so people know what they’re getting into. Like a warning label, but delicious.

5. Freeze
   Cover with foil or plastic wrap and freeze for at least 6 hours or overnight if you have the patience of a saint. I do not. I check my freezer approximately 87 times to see if it’s “ice creamy yet.” It never is until I give up and forget it exists until 2am. And then, friends, the time is right.

6. Scoop and Swoon
   When it’s firm and scoopable, serve it up. In bowls, on cones, straight from the pan—no judgment. Just joy.

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Notes from the Trenches

• If you’re making your own blueberry pie filling, it’s basically blueberries, a little sugar, a squeeze of lemon, and some cornstarch. Simmer until glossy and thickened. Try not to eat it all off the spoon.

• If your graham crackers are a little stale? EVEN BETTER. They soak up the creaminess like little flavor sponges.

• Want to get wild? Add a pinch of cinnamon to the graham crackers. Or swirl in some lemon zest with the blueberries. Go full rebel mode.

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Final Thoughts

There’s something about the combo of tangy blueberries, creamy vanilla, and the crunch of graham cracker that hits every nostalgic note. It tastes like summer vacation. Like backyard BBQs. Like being a kid again but without having to do algebra homework.

And honestly? I wasn’t even trying to start a Frosty Friday tradition, but now I feel like I’m on the hook. Which means I’ll just have to keep making ice cream. Darn. Twist my arm. If this turns into a full-blown weekly frozen dessert ritual, I’m not even sorry.

So, my friends: make this ice cream. Share it with someone you like, or hoard it like the dragon you are. Either way, it’s worth every single calorie.

Catch you next Friday—same time, same freezer. ❄️🍨💙

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P.S. If you end up making this, please tell me. Or tag me. Or send smoke signals. I want to bask in your blueberry glory.